The Dark One
by Xenon
Summary: Post season three. Simon de Belleme is back in Sherwood.
1. One

THE DARK ONE

~~~~~~  
"In the days when the lion has ceased to roar, but the devil's brood still holds sway,   
the one shall come. And he shall be old and he shall be new,   
and his enemies shall quake to see him."   
Prophecies of Gildas  
~~~~~~ 

_They had taken him at what he had believed to be the moment of his death, and had carried him away to a place where even Herne never walked. There had been mists and still waters, and the sound of endless bird song; and he had lain there, whilst summer had died around him. Whilst autumn and winter had walked their eternal path; whilst spring had come again to fill the world with flowers. _

And he had lain on, knowing nothing. Not even his own name. 

********** 

Robin, once heir to the Earldom of Huntingdon, breathed deeply. Smoke filled his lungs, strangely scented and calming; a smoke that did not make him cough. His vision swam. 

"Look hard, my son." Herne's voice sounded the way it always did; commanding but gentle; urgent but relaxing. A voice to be listened to, and a voice to be obeyed. "See what you will see." 

"I see..." He didn't see anything yet. Just smoke, and the smouldering twigs and mosses that were the source of it. Somewhere nearby a bird sang, and the clear sound awoke the second consciousness within him. A long breath exhaled itself, and at last his vision cleared. 

And he saw... _A figure, hidden by a dark hood... A pair of cupped hands, filled to brimming with diamonds that sparkled like white fire... Marion, her arms outstretched, imploring, her face wet with tears..._ He choked, the strong scent of the billowing smoke catching in his throat at last. Marion. Was there something wrong with Marion? Did she need him? He wanted to go to her, but Herne was not finished with him yet, and he knew that there was still more to be seen. The clashing sound of swords filled his ears, and he let his mind tell him more... _The Sheriff of Nottingham, laughing aloud... A pentagram, burning in a room of cold grey stone... And Will Scarlet, his eyes wild and mad, stabbing Nasir in the back..._ The images faded. Robin fell forward onto the ground. 

"Sometimes it is hard to see what must be seen." Herne's voice sounded faint; a distant noise somewhere above him. He raised his head. 

"These things... are they going to happen soon?" 

"That is not for us to know." Herne made no move to help him up. Robin had never thought that he would. "But there are other things that I can tell you." 

"And will I understand them?" He made it back to his knees, and tried to concentrate on the world around him. His heart was beating faster than he had known it to do for a long time, and his body felt washed in cold, cold sweat. The last thing that he wanted was to listen to more cryptic prophecies, but he knew that he didn't have a choice. Such things were all a part of being the son of Herne. 

"You will understand what is necessary, when the time comes to understand it." A hand fell onto his shoulder, briefly. "A man will come. A man with whom you share a father." 

"Gisburne?" Robin stared up at the smoke-shrouded figure above him. "Gisburne is coming into Sherwood?" 

"A man will come." Herne's voice was quiet and patient, and showed no sign of any concern for the import of his news. "He is all that he appears to be, and that must not be forgotten." 

"Oh I know everything that Gisburne is, believe me." Robin still couldn't believe that he really was related to the Sheriff's young steward. Gisburne was everything that he hated; everything that Herne had chosen him to fight against. How mad and inexplicable that they should share a father. 

"With him comes a new time; a new stage of your destiny. There will be changes. Danger. Perhaps death." 

"When?" He stumbled to his feet, anxious now to return to the others. "When is all of this going to happen?" 

"Summer is long over." Herne's answer was hardly helpful, but even in his frustration Robin understood that it was the best he was going to get. "Autumn is a time of the greatest of change. Choose wisely, Robin i' the Hood. Choose wisely." 

"I'll try." He lifted his eyes, meeting Herne's for the first time since he had arrived in the hidden grove. "Is there anything else that I need to know?" 

"Much." Herne was smiling at him, in the gentle, paternal fashion that still managed to be cryptic, even beneath the warmth. "But no more that I can tell you. Go now." 

"Thankyou." It was part of the ritual to thank his father; even though at times he felt that there was little to thank him for. Surely it was better, on occasion, not to know some of the things that he saw and heard at Herne's behest? He dismissed the thought. The Lord of the Forest always had his reasons. Sometimes they just happened to be harder to see. 

"Go with my blessing, my son." The smoke swirled. Robin knew that when it cleared his father would be gone. He always was. The birds still sang, and the wind still blew, but a part of his reality had changed. Something had been altered without his awareness. Such was always the way when he was with Herne. 

********** 

The camp had been a quieter place since Marion had left. Much was subdued, missing the girl who had been so kind to him for so long. She had been his last link with his foster brother, and he didn't understand why she had left. Even Will Scarlet was obviously affected by the loss. Marion was a lady of high birth, and he had been suspicious of her once, but he had softened his attitude long ago. She had been a part of the gang, and her departure, after Loxley's death, had been one of the reasons why he had left Sherwood. Robert of Huntingdon had brought the gang back together again, Marion amongst them, but even his presence as the new son of Herne had been unable to make her stay. There was a hole amidst them now, and it disturbed the equilibrium. They all wanted the girl back. 

"We need to get moving." Robin came from the west, striding into the camp with a step that suggested urgency. Little John glanced up from where he was restringing his bow. 

"Are we moving camp?" 

"No. No, I don't think so." Robin rubbed his brow, wishing that he could make sense of a few of the images he had seen, and wishing that he was allowed to speak of them to the others. "Herne said that Gisburne is coming. Why he's coming I don't know, but apparently he's heading this way." 

"Could somebody have betrayed us?" Will couldn't think of anybody besides Marion who knew the location of their camp, and he certainly didn't suspect her; but somebody else might have discovered something. Robin shook his head. 

"I doubt it. Besides, Herne seemed to be suggesting that he'll be travelling alone. It's more likely that he's delivering something." 

"Something that we ought to intercept?" John was on his feet in an instant. "Then we're heading for the road to Nottingham?" 

"I think so." Robin looked around at the other members of the gang. "Listen, about Marion..." 

"It's alright." Will was already on his feet, eager to be off. The chance of ambushing Guy of Gisburne was enough to dispel all but the worst of sorry feelings, and his characteristic spiritedness did not usually stay away for long. "We know that you probably miss her more than we do, but it's not as if she's definitely gone for good, is it." He grinned. "Maybe if she hears a few good stories of the things we get up to without her, she'll come back." 

"I'd like that." Much, sitting on a low tree branch, was swinging his legs disconsolately. Will threw a stick at him. 

"Come on, Muchy. Let's go and catch us a Gisburne. We could all do with the exercise." 

"Alright." Jumping down, Much made a fair stab at looking eager. Little John cuffed him playfully around the shoulders. 

"So it's roasted Gisburne for dinner tonight. Think you can manage to fit a whole one in the pot, Tuck?" 

"I think I can try." Laughing contentedly, the friar rose to his feet. "If you can catch him." 

"Oh we'll do that." Shouldering his bow, Will turned to Robin. "Where are we going?" 

"Due north. The old road where they used to take the fleeces to market." Robin glanced at the sky. It was early morning still, and the vision he had seen of the man in the black hood had been lit with the light of midday; but it was best to be there in advance, and be sure of catching Gisburne when he came. "Where's Nasir?" 

"On watch." Will put his fingers to his mouth and emitted a shrill whistle that sent several birds fleeing for cover. Robin winced. Wherever Nasir was there seemed little danger that he would have missed that signal, and of course with his exceptional hearing he hadn't. With hardly a sound the almost perpetually silent Saracen dropped out of the branches of a nearby tree, where he had apparently been roosting for some time. Robin had known Nasir for some months now, and the taciturn foreigner seemed to have spent at least half of that time up a succession of trees. Clearly he liked it. 

"Right." It felt strange going off on a raid without Marion there, but Robin tried to dismiss the thought that something was missing. "Let's get moving." 

"And catch us a nice tasty Gisburne." Will had had a fair amount to drink the night before, and apparently quite a bit of it was still in his system. Robin smiled. 

"If you want to eat him Will, that's fine. I just want whatever he's carrying. And remember - Gisburne is always ready." 

"Oh he's always expecting us to attack him, that's for sure." Picking up his large quarter-staff, which had the size and appearance of a whole stout tree trunk, Little John laughed loudly. "He's just hopeless at stopping us." 

"That's titled Normans for you. All money and no brains." Will banged Robin on the back. "Right Robin?" 

"Very funny." Rolling his eyes, the former heir to a Norman Earldom began to lead the way into the forest. Some days it wasn't just Herne who risked sending him mad. 

********** 

_He didn't remember eating or drinking anything. He didn't remember moving or speaking or even breathing. For the passage of so many months he simply was, without knowing it. And then, gradually, things began to change. The birdsong became clearer, sharper. The wind became more tangible; more fresh against his skin. He could smell the moist earth and the fruit beginning to grow on the trees. He could feel the rushes, the mosses and the grasses on which he lay. And finally, when he was at last beginning to realise that he was truly alive, he could see the blue sky above his head. He watched the cloud patterns change from day to day, and he watched the birds make their passages to-and-fro. _

And finally, when he knew that it was truly autumn, he remembered at last how to stand. And he knew then that it was time to go. 

********** 

The cart had been rattling along the old north road for some time, and the man driving it didn't look as though he was particularly anxious to get anywhere. Wrapped in a shapeless black cloak, his face hidden by a thick hood, he might have been young or old, strong or weak. The cloak gave nothing away, and the hood covered his head completely. The only parts of him that were visible were his hands, and they gave nothing away; only the fact that they were strong, and that they seemed to be young. A long bow lay at his feet, and a quiver of arrows was beside it. They were fine arrows, made from silver birch, evenly feathered and straight. To be caught in Sherwood Forest with such weapons would mean a summary imprisonment or maiming, but the man in the black hood had made no attempt to hide them. Anybody who stopped him would see them, and for him not to worry about such danger meant that he was either Norman nobility or very brave. Perhaps he thought that he had every right to bear such arms. Perhaps he thought that he had been given that right by an authority higher than any Norman law. 

Or perhaps he just didn't care. 

********** 

Robin and his gang saw the cart almost exactly at noon, just as Robin's vision had led him to believe. The driver didn't stop as they stepped out into the road, but when the young leader of the band stepped out in front of him, he reined in the single, aged horse, and brought the lop-sided cart to a halt. The axles creaked in protest and the horse stamped its feet. Robin laid a gentle hand on its neck, and it quietened immediately. 

"Where's your escort, Gisburne?" It bothered him that the man was wearing a hood, just as it bothered him that he had remained so still and silent. "Surely even you wouldn't be fool enough to come through Sherwood on your own?" 

"I'm not Guy of Gisburne." The voice within the hood was too soft to be properly heard, but it seemed to belong to a man who was well spoken and sure of himself. The certainty of nobility perhaps; definitely not that of most of England's downtrodden peasantry. Robin smiled, keeping his patience just as he always tried to do. 

"What are you carrying?" Nodding to Will, he gestured at the back of the cart. Whatever was in there was covered with a piece of material; home-spun and heavy, like the cloth that clothed most of the poor. The hood moved slightly, as though the man within it was turning his attention to the cart. 

"A gift." He spoke the words very precisely, with perhaps a touch of humour. "For the people of Herne." 

"A gift?" Robin thought about all the possibilities. Was the cart big enough to hide several soldiers ready for the attack? He didn't think so, but he couldn't imagine anything else that Gisburne might be carrying. He almost called Will back, but by then Scarlet had already laid hold of the cloth. With a powerful flick of his wrist he tugged it free, and all of the outlaws turned to see what lay beneath. What had this man come into Sherwood, risking the many outlaws that dwelt there, in order to transport? Robin remembered the cupped hands filled with diamonds that he had seen on his vision - but diamonds were not what lay before him now. Instead, sprawled as though asleep, and still warm to the touch, was a magnificent deer. A single arrow, fashioned from silver birch, protruded from its neck. Robin frowned. 

"One of the king's deer..." Not Gisburne then. Whoever this man was, he couldn't be the sheriff's insufferable steward. "Who are you?" 

"And what's going on?" Looking about as though he expected some hidden enemy to come dashing out of the undergrowth, Will raised his long bow. An arrow was already fitted to the string, but he didn't point it at any immediate target. John was ready with his staff, eyes surveying the road in wary readiness, and Tuck and Much, close together a short distance away, also looked decidedly uneasy. Only Nasir remained impassive, but Robin knew that he could draw his twin swords in the blink of an eye, and would be ready for battle as quickly as any of them. 

"Nothing's going on." The man in the hood sounded as though he was smiling, and Robin wished that he had Albion in his hand. The sword had always given him confidence and strength, but now he felt adrift. He wasn't sure why. Why should an anonymous man in a hood make him feel so ill at ease? Herne's words from earlier were loud in his mind, and he couldn't forget them. Change was coming, and this man triggered the start of it all. Change that might mean death. Change that made Marion cry tears of deepest anguish. Change that was going to lead Will to stab Nasir in the back. He tightened his jaw and stood his ground, and stared at the black space within the hood. Somewhere in there was a face, and he had decided that it was long past due for him to see it. He stood a little straighter, and let his natural authority power his words. 

"Who are you?" It was a polite demand, but a demand nonetheless. Nasir had come to stand beside him, arriving as silently as always, adding weight to Robin's own implied threats. The hooded figure moved slightly closer, and Will's bow whipped up to point directly at him. A low laugh, joyous and light, made gentle fun of their forceful behaviour. 

"One who shares your father." The words were so close to Herne's own that Robin could not help drawing in a breath. His eyes snapped up a fraction, staring unerringly straight into the other man's eyes. He couldn't see them, but he knew where they were. His instincts always led him to know such things. 

"My father?" He was thinking of the Earl of Huntingdon, and inescapably of Guy of Gisburne, but he realised now that he had been wrong. The man in the hood touched him on the shoulder; the action of a brother or a friend. 

"Your father," he echoed, and his voice was gentle and strong. "Herne the Hunter." And he pushed back the hood, and they all saw his face for the first time. 

And even though it was a face he had never seen before, the man who had once been Robert of Huntingdon knew that he was looking at the man who had once been Robin of Loxley. And he felt as though he was staring into madness. 

********** 

For a long time nobody spoke. The wind blew gently, and the horse tossed its head. Robin - Robert - laid his hand back upon its neck, but this time it did not quiet down as it had done before. It could sense his unease far too clearly, and its agitation grew. The same was true of all of them, for whatever unrest and uncertainty the horse was experiencing, it couldn't have been as great as that felt by the men grouped around it. 

"Who are you?" It was Will who spoke first, belligerent and forceful, bow still pointed at the man on the cart. Loxley grinned, and the expression was one of such familiarity to them all that there wasn't a man amongst them who didn't respond to it. Even Nasir relaxed a little, although his eyes were unreadable. 

"You're a demon." Will didn't sound entirely sure of that, but he had never been a man who trusted easily. Loxley shook his head. 

"No Will. I'm no demon." 

"But you're dead." Much's voice had a faint quiver to it, though his eyes were filled with yearning. He had dreamt of this, ever since the day that Robin had walked away from him, and left Albion in Marion's keeping. "You... you must be a demon." 

"What does your heart say, Much?" Loxley had climbed down from the cart without any of them being aware that he had moved. With one hand he stroked the horse into restful silence, and with the other he reached out towards his foster brother. Will made as though to intercede, but a look from the man who had once been his leader stilled him in his tracks. Much looked panicked. 

"You're a demon." The whimper had made his voice rise to a higher pitch than normal, and his face was very pale. Loxley shook his head. 

"The horse doesn't think so. Horses know, don't they. Remember your father's horse?" 

"I remember." The childish grin that Much possessed, which usually made everybody who knew him smile in return, stole briefly across his face. "Horses do know. Animals know all kinds of things, don't they." He took a step forward, and Will moved to stop him. 

"Don't be a fool Much. It's a trick. Some trick of Gisburne's, or something magic. Remember Gulnar? Remember how he made another Robin?" 

"Always suspicious." Loxley's smile was warm and friendly; the bright smile they had always known. It brought to mind joking around the fire, and fooling around during weapons training. Of his play arguments with Marion, and his gentle mockery whenever he had faced up to the Normans. Demons didn't smile like that, no matter how anxious they were to fool the world. Much's grin grew bigger. 

"It's really you, isn't it Robin." His trusting face was transformed, the fear leaving it, replaced by radiant joy. Loxley looked faintly relieved. 

"It's really me." He stretched out his hand that little bit further, and stepped past Huntingdon and Nasir. "Hello Much." 

"Oh Robin." Running forward, heedless of any of his earlier fears, the boy threw himself into the arms of his adopted brother. Huntingdon fell back a pace, uncertain but intrigued. 

"I don't understand." It was John who spoke, his gentle tones showing concern and confusion. "You're dead, Robin. You've been dead for so long. We said our goodbyes like we said them for Dickon and Tom, and Herne sent another son in your place. You can't be here." 

"I thought that I was dead." It was clear that it was not easy for him to explain. "Maybe even Herne thought that I was. All that I know is that I was taken deep into the forest; beyond the forest; by somebody that I never saw. I don't remember what's happened since then. But I know that I'm supposed to be dead." 

"And yet you're not." More words of Herne's were returning to Huntingdon now. _He is all that he appears to be, and that must not be forgotten_. Certainly this man did not appear to be anything so much as Robin of Loxley. The first Robin i' in the Hood. In that case, since Herne had spoken of it, surely that was exactly what he must be? So the man in the black hood truly was at the start of the changes Herne had predicted. The great change that was to come with the autumn. 

"No, I'm not." Releasing Much, though keeping him close, Robin turned his attention back to his successor. He saw a young man, younger even than himself, blond where he was dark, Norman where he was English, clearly an aristocrat, where he had always been a peasant. Herne had chosen somebody very different, it seemed, to be his second son. "At least, I don't think so." His head turned, as he looked at each of his former friends in turn. There was mistrust in all their eyes, but he didn't really blame them. How could he when he didn't understand himself? And so it was that the first born son of Herne, as lost in Sherwood Forest as he might have been in a uncharted, foreign land, allowed them to blindfold him, and take him back to their camp. His mind was still floating some paces behind, but his heart was several steps ahead for, in the midst of his confusion, one thought was paramount. _Marion_. 

She at least would know him for what he was. 

********** 

"Gone?" He had taken off the blindfold, not needing to be told that they had arrived at their destination. "What do you mean she's gone?" 

"She's left us." John answered the question automatically, then clammed up slightly. Clearly he was still suspicious. "Didn't want to do it anymore." 

"But she was the heart of us. The... the soul." Loxley - or whoever he was - shook his dark head in disbelief. "She can't have just changed." 

"These things happen." Huntingdon's voice was sharp, for the loss of Marion was something that he felt keenly. It still hurt that he had had to let her go, and it seemed to him that Loxley was apportioning blame. 

"Aye." John was remembering the time, after the death of their first leader, when the band had fallen apart; when they had been flung to the four winds and abandoned the task that had chosen them. He still felt a bit guilty about that, and for that reason even if no other, could not really blame Marion for her departure. Will was not so understanding. 

"Went back to being a lady again, didn't she. Back to doing what she used to do. Maybe living in a forest didn't suit her anymore." 

"Will!" Huntingdon's powerfully authoritative voice startled them all, but far from reacting angrily, Will was gracious enough to look faintly abashed. They all knew that he didn't really believe the things that he had said. Loxley smiled. 

"She'll come back, Will. I'll find her. Speak to her. She belongs with us in Sherwood." 

"Who's us?" Scarlet was still deeply suspicious, as were they all. "And you're not going anywhere until we find out who you are." 

"I'm Robin of Loxley." The words were simple, the voice gentle and calm. "Don't you remember, Will, how we spent so much time here in Sherwood together? How I first told you who I was, in the dungeon at Nottingham Castle? You said that there was no such place as Loxley, but I told you that _nothing's forgotten_. Nothing, Will." 

"You see?" Much had moved, and was now standing alongside the man who had been his brother. "You see? He is Robin. Just like he used to be. He knows, see. I was there too in that dungeon, and I heard him say that. Just like you did Will." 

"Yeah, I heard him." Scarlet was looking confused. There were possibilities of course - people could know about that. Somebody could have overheard, and could now be using that knowledge in an attempt to fool them all. And yet part of him could not really believe that. His eyes turned to Huntingdon - another man that he had once doubted and suspected, and even hated at first, and yet who he had now come to respect almost as no other. "What do you think, Robin?" 

"I..." It was more than merely confusing, and Huntingdon was more than merely torn. A man who was dead, and yet wasn't. A man who had been gone for so long and yet, without explanation, was here amongst them again. He remembered when Herne had called him, as the successor to the first Robin i' the Hood. Was it possible that the Lord of the Hunt himself had not known that his son had still lived? "I don't know Will. Except--" 

"Except what?" John was ready to believe, through sheer desire for it all to be true, and they could all see that. Huntingdon smiled. It certainly wasn't for him to persuade these people to deny their hearts' desire. 

"Herne said that someone would come, and that he would be all that he appeared to be." He frowned. "So I suppose the question is... who does he appear to be?" 

"Robin," said Much, with the firm determination of a child who would not be dissuaded. Tuck smiled at him. 

"Aye lad. I don't think there's much doubt of that." 

"Then you believe me?" Loxley was relieved, although his own confusion still lingered. He didn't know how he came to be alive, any more than did his friends. "John? Will? Nasir?" 

"Aye. Aye I think we do believe you." John's voice was gentle, just as it always was when he spoke to his friends, although there was something else behind the words. Will didn't say anything. A little of the hostility had gone from his eyes perhaps, but he had not relaxed his stance. Only Nasir was yet to react in any way. Loxley, who had always been able to read thoughts and emotions that might have been invisible to anybody else, found himself at a loss to identify the look in those dark eyes now. 

"I suppose the question is," Will commented, for once taking up the more thoughtful stance, "if you are Robin - how do you come to be here? Who brought you here? What kind of magic did they use, and what did they do it for?" The famous Scarlet belligerence was coming back into his voice, and his eyes were hot once again. Loxley shook his head. 

"I wish I knew, Will." The sadness in his voice was almost tragic, and they all felt for him - even if they couldn't yet trust him. "I don't remember being dead, but I know that I was supposed to be. If this is part of somebody's magic, they must be very powerful. It could upset the balance that Herne brings to the forest." 

"I should talk to him." The decision formed in Huntingdon's mind in the same, quick way that a summons from Herne usually manifested itself; like an idea that felt as if was born in his own mind, but might just as easily have been put there by another. The mention of going to Herne brought a look of yearning to Loxley's face, but the first Hooded Man didn't ask if he could also go to meet with the Lord of the Forest. 

"Why can't he just be Robin?" Much was looking confused, feeling that his joy had been cruelly curtailed by all of this continuing suspicion. He wanted his brother back, and for him that overruled all else. Tuck laid a hand on the boy's shoulder. 

"Pour us some ale lad," he said kindly, and the boy, as always, went willingly to do as he was told. Loxley watched him as he complied with the friar's request, remembering so many other times; so many other jugs of ale, beside so many other campfires. Could he really have been brought back to life by some ill-meaning magician, who sought to undo Herne's work in the forest, and tip their world into chaos? He had met so many evil sorcerers in his time, and he had even witnessed one of them return from the dead. If the Baron de Belleme had done it, surely somebody could also do it to him? The thought would have made him shudder, if he had been of a weaker disposition. 

"Here Robin." The wooden mugs were exactly as Loxley remembered them - why should they have been any different? He took the one that was being offered to him, smiling his thanks at Much. The boy had changed, and he wondered why he hadn't noticed that straight away. He had not grown taller especially, but he looked less the boy and far more the man. The innocence was still in his eyes though. That much at least had not changed. 

"Not for me thanks." Huntingdon shook his head at the mug being offered his way, and turned to leave the camp. "I'll be back as soon as I can. Tuck, stay here and keep guard with Much." He didn't say what it was that had need to be guarded, although the inference was clear. "John, Nasir, Will - if you think you can face leaving when there's ale being poured, get back out and watch the road. There's always a chance I read things wrong and there's somebody else out there." 

"Gisburne?" Will's eyes flashed with hope. Huntingdon gave a nod. 

"Yes, perhaps. If so, try to leave him in one piece?" 

"I'll try." Will's grin was practically from ear to ear. "But I'm not promising anything. Come on lads." He turned and headed away, without so much as a look back at the man seated by the fire. Loxley stared at his back, and longed for the days when this easy camaraderie had been something he had shared. John cast a lingering look in his direction, a frown puckering his forehead, before he cast a brief, half-wave at Tuck and strode off. Nasir too walked quickly away. Robin wished that it was not so difficult to interpret the silent man's thoughts, for it would be nice to know whether or not he had at least one more ally within the camp. 

"Will you be alright here alone?" Huntingdon was toying with the hilt of Albion, as though the weapon suddenly weighed heavy upon his belt. Loxley's eyes were drawn to it, and he remembered holding the weapon in his own hands, in the days when he had been its guardian. Would it still know him? Surely the surest and best way to test his good faith would be to see how Albion reacted to him? He was about to suggest it when the young blond man who was now the sword's keeper turned smartly on his heel and moved away. He was gone so fast that the branches of the trees barely moved. 

"Are you alright?" Coming back to sit beside Loxley, Much gazed at him over the rim of his mug as he drank. Robin smiled at him. 

"I'm fine Much. And don't drink that so quickly. Remember what happened when we ate at Nottingham Castle that time?" 

"With King Richard." Much looked a little embarrassed, and lowered the mug. "I remember. I _think_ I remember. Did I slide under the table?" 

Tuck guffawed, his round face lighting up with good humour at the memory. 

"Aye lad. You slipped right down. Not that the rest of us did much better." He sighed, and his eyes drifted away to look out into the forest. Loxley knew that he was looking after Huntingdon, and he realised that the band that once had followed him were now just as surely devoted to their new leader. This must be very difficult for all of them. 

"Why doesn't Robin like Robin?" Much frowned as he asked the question, realising the clumsiness of it, then turned questioning eyes to Tuck. The friar's now serious eyes began to look sad. 

"It's complicated, lad." He glanced briefly at Loxley, who looked away. "When a man who's supposed to be dead turns out not to be, it's important to find out how and why. Even if he really is who he says he is, he might be part of somebody's evil plans." 

"Robin isn't evil." Much was not the simpleton that he was so often accused of being, but his emotions and opinions were always simple enough. Tuck patted him on the shoulder. 

"I know that, lad." He couldn't meet Loxley's eyes though, and kept his gaze upon Much alone. "But it takes a good deal of magic to bring somebody back to life." 

"Maybe he was never dead. We never saw his body, did we. Marion and I were there, sort of. We never saw his body. We know the Sheriff's men never found it. Why can't he have survived?" 

"Maybe he did." This time Tuck did look at Robin, but Loxley was no longer looking at him. Instead he was staring into the fire. "But there's still something going on here, and we have to hope that whatever it is, it's not going to be a threat to all of us." 

"Robin isn't a threat." Much folded his arms, looking cross and upset, but Tuck didn't know what to say to reassure him. Inside he couldn't help feeling worried, and he knew that his feelings were the same as those felt by Huntingdon - and probably by Loxley as well. Whatever they had begun by meeting the hooded man that day, it was something that was going to change the lives of all of them. He only hoped that there was some chance of that change being for good. 

********** 

"So what do you think?" Having elected to forego secrecy, John, Will and Nasir were striding down the middle of the road together, walking three abreast even though the thoroughfare was hardly wide enough for that. Will sighed, frustrated at his lack of a proper answer to John's question. 

"I don't know what to think." He kicked hard at a stone, and the little piece of rock flew into the air and sent a bird flying angrily from its nest. "He didn't look like a ghost." 

"Didn't look like a demon either." John shrugged his massive shoulders. "So does that mean he's what he says he is?" 

"I don't know. How do you come back to life, or stay alive when everybody knows you're supposed to be dead? Doesn't work, does it. What if somebody else had to die to bring him back, or there's some price that has to be paid now he _is_ back? Nothing I wouldn't pay for that to happen, but... well it doesn't work that way, does it. I never did like magic." Shooting a glance back over his shoulder at Nasir, who was starting to trail behind, Scarlet asked him what he thought. The Saracen was silent for a moment, and both of the other men assumed that he was not going to answer. Eventually, however, he raised his eyebrows in what appeared to be a placid indication of the facts. 

"Robin died for us," he said simply, his quiet voice barely carrying in the still air. "For all of us, to make the seasons continue to turn. It was... _necessary_." 

"Then you think he's a ghost, or a demon?" John always felt himself going by the decisions of the taciturn Saracen - when they could actually get him to voice his decisions that was. There was something about the man's quiet wisdom that was strangely compelling. 

"No." For once he voiced the word, instead of merely indicating it with a shake of his head. "He is alive. What is important is to know what comes next." 

"What price there is to be paid." Will nodded, his own opinion, voiced so recently, now apparently being underlined. Nasir nodded. 

"Fate demands payment." 

"You're a confusing sod at times, you know that?" Will shook his head, annoyed with everybody for no particular reason. He just wanted to be angry, because he didn't know what was going on. John smiled at him. 

"He means that if something is supposed to happen, but for some reason it doesn't, something else will have to happen instead. And it's a good point. We're all worrying about whether Robin's a ghost, or has been brought back to life for some horrible reason - but the truth is that it could be just as bad if he's none of those things. Maybe he never died. Maybe nobody's brought him back from the dead. Still could be dangerous having him back though, couldn't it." 

"Well what do you want to do? Kill him?" Will shook his head, exasperated with everything. "What do you think we should do, Naz?" 

"Hide." The Saracen had stopped, and was standing in the middle of the road, apparently listening to thin air. "Somebody is coming." 

"Huh?" Scarlet froze, also listening. "Who?" His answer was a withering glare, and he grinned. "Yeah yeah, alright. How many are there?" 

"One wagon. Three men on horses." Neither of Nasir's companions thought to question his judgement, and together they hurried into the bushes that lined the road. John rubbed his beard, his mind racing ahead of itself as he tried to think what they should do next. 

"Do we try to ambush them?" he asked. Will rolled his eyes. 

"No John. We hide here and let them go on past. Of course we ambush them. Are you going soft?" 

"Keep your voice down." John peered over the bushes, and was pleased to see that there was still no sign of whoever was coming. "I just meant, there's only the three of us. Shouldn't we play safe?" 

"You can if you want to. I'm going to go and rob me a wagon." Will frowned. "Shame there aren't a few more of us though. Might be a bit rough if there's a lot of people riding in that wagon." 

"A _bit_ rough?" John shook his head. "Look, if Nasir goes back to the camp he can get the others and be back here before they've gone too far. We can lay a proper ambush further down the road." 

"There won't be anybody back at the camp, remember? Robin's off looking for Herne, and Tuck and Much can't leave... the other Robin. It's up to us." Will scowled, doing his best to think hard. Planning had never been his strongest suit. "What about the net that Robin had us put up in the trees near here? We could use that." 

"The net is for emergencies, Will. I'm pretty certain Robin had plans for--" 

"This _is_ an emergency! Robin's not here, we're on our own, and somebody who could be carrying loads of gold is going to get past us unless we do something." Will seemed determined to win the argument through sheer volume alone. "Nasir, where did we put the net?" 

"Ahead. Not far." Pointing upwards and onwards, the Saracen indicated where the hidden trap was secreted. As always he made no comment about the sense of Will's plan, but merely answered the question as economically as was possible. Scarlet nodded. 

"Good. Get up a tree and get ready to spring it. John?" 

"You're crazy." The big man was smiling though, and it was obvious that he was not going to pull out. "Alright, alright. I'll get into position. But no unnecessary risks, Will." 

"I'll behave." If it was actually possible for Scarlet to do so then he had given no indication of it over the last few years of his acquaintance with John, but his friend was not the sort to point that out. "I'll even promise not to kill anybody who gets tangled up. So are we ready?" 

"Yeah." Nodding at Nasir to get on his way, John hefted his heavy quarter-staff. "Lead on Will." 

"Over here." Running at a crouch Scarlet led the way towards a likely piece of cover. The bushes were thicker, the trees taller, and the road rather narrower than further down, and it all looked very promising. John still thought that they were daft for making the attempt, but he didn't say anything. Will was not nearly so circumspect, however. 

"You think we're nuts, don't you." 

"Yeah." John grinned at him. "And if this doesn't work, you're the one who's going to explain to Robin that we've ruined his net before he even got the chance to use it." 

"We'll tell him it got eaten by squirrels." Will's face became grim as the sounds of horse hooves became increasingly loud. "Ready?" 

"Are you kidding? I'll never be ready for this." Laying down his staff he fixed an arrow to his bow. "You know, I'm certain Robin had big plans for that net." 

"Hard luck." Will's eyes were narrow as he tried to judge timing and distances. This was definitely the reason they usually had somebody else to give the orders. The convoy was in view now; three men on horseback, just as Nasir had said, one riding ahead of the other two, all preceding a slow, heavy wagon. 

"Look at that!" Will was delighted, and John could understand why. Distinct in his colourful robes, the man driving the wagon was clearly identifiable. Abbot Hugo de Rainault, older brother of the Sheriff of Nottingham, was driving with both his eyes on the bushes to either side of the road. Of all the churchmen in the locality he had suffered the most at the hands of Robin's men, for they had all taken a great delight in tormenting him. Clearly now he was nervous and expecting trouble. 

"Poor old Abbot Hugo." John grinned hugely. "He's looking in the wrong direction." 

"And you didn't think that the net was a good idea." Will raised his bow. He had a perfect bead on the lead rider, but he didn't want to fire until he knew when and where the net was going to fall. His eyes drifted up. He couldn't see Nasir or the net, but he knew that they were both up there. The net was camouflaged against the reddening leaves, and Nasir would be somewhere to the left of it, where they had hidden the mechanism that would send it falling to the ground. The timing had to be perfect, but the net itself would not let them down. 

"Not yet, Naz." The Saracen could not hear him of course, but it made Scarlet feel better to talk aloud. "Not yet. Not yet..." The horses were coming closer, and the wagon would soon be level with them. If Hugo was being as vigilant as he appeared to be, he could not fail to see them then - and would give a warning that would make the best of ambushes hopeless. John glanced up. 

"What's he waiting for?" 

"The right moment." Will tightened his grip on his bow and its readied arrow. "Not yet Naz, not yet, not... Now!" And in perfect tandem with his whispered word, the leaves above them blossomed out into a burst of downward motion. Hugo looked up, clearly expecting to have a multitude of outlaws descending upon him from the trees, only to see the net. He let out a startled squeak and tried to whip up the horses, but trapped behind the less alarmed guards he was unable to get out of the way. The net fell, and the horses whinnied in startled fright as it folded itself around them. Trapped as well, the two rearmost soldiers fell from their mounts in a fury of lashing fists and kicking feet. Will stood up in the same instant, and with one ruthless shot, killed the guard in the lead. His horse made as if to bolt, but Nasir's quiet form melted out of the shadows in just enough time to catch hold of its bridle and calm it. 

"Well well well. Abbot Hugo." Striding up to the wagon, John put his hands on his hips and regarded the furious churchman with sparkling eyes. "Anybody would think you liked being ambushed." 

"Yeah. Isn't it about time you looked for a road that doesn't take you through Sherwood?" Grinning at the trapped abbot, Will swung up onto the back of the wagon. Hugo began to struggle furiously, winding himself up in the net so securely that it looked as though it would have taken a whole army with their swords to cut him loose. 

"Let me go!" His voice was about one part fear to two parts anger, and of course only served to make Will's spirits rise. The incorrigible outlaw began rummaging through the contents of the wagon, making as much noise and mess as he could. Trapped as he was the abbot was unable to see what was going on, but the noises were clearly horrifying him. Will, who was uncovering nothing but coloured silks and large books, did not really see the point of such anguish. 

"There's nothing here worth having." He threw a pile of silk at John, who played up to the rôle by wrapping a length of sky blue material around his head and taking up a coquettish stance. Will laughed. 

"Very fetching. Not going to pull in the money though, is it. How much do you reckon these books are worth?" 

"Do I look like a cleric?" John threw one of the books to Nasir, who flicked through the first few pages with a look of brief interest. 

"Greek plays," he told them, with the air of one who knew exactly what he was looking at. Will and John, who had long since ceased to hope that they would ever have all their questions about their Saracen friend answered, merely exchanged a look. 

"But is it worth anything?" Will asked. Nasir shook his head. 

"No more than any book." He turned over a few more pages, and a frown flickered across his forehead. 

"Something wrong?" Fighting his way out of the blue silk he had wrapped about himself a little too tightly, John went to join his companion. Nasir held out the book. About a third of the way through, the pages had been stuck together with some sort of gum, and a large hole had been cut into the middle of the thick wad. It turned the book into a neat little box, clearly designed to be a clever hiding place for something. It was empty, but perhaps the others were not. With a growing smile upon his face, John tossed the book to Will, who glanced at it, raised his eyebrows, and began searching through the rest of the wagon's previously uninteresting cargo. Hugo's struggles became more furious, and John knocked him out with a blow from his quarter-staff. 

"What is there?" he asked eventually. Will was still rummaging. 

"Couple of necklaces," he announced in the end, holding up a book in one hand and two golden chains in the other. Both bore sizeable crosses decorated in coloured quartz and jet; nothing terribly valuable, but enough to take care of one or two of the financial burdens placed upon local villages. John took the chains, stowing them away inside his tunic. 

"That the lot?" It was a little disappointing, given the enthusiasm of their ambush, but the chains were at least worththe weight of the gold that made them. 

"I don't know." Will burrowed on, skimming through the pages of several dozen more books. Most of them had not been doctored, and were just what they appeared to be - long volumes written in languages he didn't understand, including at least one alphabet that he couldn't even begin to decipher. "Books are worth something if they're old, aren't they?" 

"Probably only to a bookseller." There were not many of them in the local area, and John couldn't imagine it being worth their while trying to sell any of these volumes. None of them looked particularly old, anyway. "Come on Will. We ought to be moving on. Quick in and out, that's always been Robin's rule. You never know when somebody might come along." 

"Just a bit." Will was still turning pages, turning books upside down and shaking them, throwing them all aside when they proved to be empty or untampered with. For once Nasir was not keeping watch, browsing instead through one of the abandoned texts. John rolled his eyes. Here he was trying to hurry things along, and both of his friends had suddenly turned into unexpected bookworms. The abbot was beginning to stir, and he considered taking out his frustrations by clobbering the poor fellow again. 

"Leave those alone." Trying and failing to sit up, Abbot Hugo glared daggers at Will. "They're the property of the Church." 

"The Church does interesting things to its books." Will waved one of the doctored texts at Hugo, who turned a very uncomfortable shade of purple and tried to feign a lack of concern. Nasir was frowning. 

"Something wrong?" Well used by now to having to prompt the Saracen into speech, John climbed up onto the wagon to try to speed things along by helping Will. Nasir held out the book he had been reading through, and John nodded knowledgeably. 

"Very nice." It wasn't a good start when you couldn't even be sure of the language that a book was written in. "What is it?" 

"Not the property of _his_ church." Nasir's eyes narrowed, as though wondering whether Hugo really was part of the same religion as Friar Tuck. "I know this book, from the library of the Baron de Belleme." 

"So it's devil stuff?" John took the book, shaking his head. He recognised two distinct alphabets, one of which appeared to be Greek - the language of learning, or so it was said. He didn't think much of this kind of learning, certainly. The other alphabet looked like the one that he had seen Nasir use once or twice, and he took it to be Arabic. The over-all effect was one of remarkable aesthetic appeal, but wasn't much of a help since he didn't understand either language. "I never thought you'd be into all that, Hugo." 

"Who said that I am?" Hugo was wriggling again, entangling himself so completely in the mesh of the net that he was becoming practically invisible. "You'll not get away with this, you, you--" 

"Shut up." Will hurled a couple more books aside, shaking his head. "I think we've had all we're going to get." 

"Then let's leave." John was already climbing down from the wagon, eager for the off. 

"I'm coming." There were only three more books. Will turned the first one upside down, and was rewarded with a small handful of silver marks; no great sum, but enough to feed the village of Wickham for at least a month. The second book appeared to be a copy of some epic poem, its neat rows of hand-written script familiar in pattern at least, even if Will Scarlet, like most of his fellow Englishmen, was incapable of understanding Latin. 

"Come on!" Losing patience, John caught Will by the scruff of the neck and hoisted him out of the wagon. The last book, slightly bigger than the others and bound in black leather, fell from Scarlet's hands and landed heavily on the ground. John let out an oath. 

"What-?" Unable to see what the book had contained, Scarlet had to wait until John had dropped him, unceremoniously, onto the ground. John was still gaping, and Will, intrigued, turned to look. What he saw made his mouth fall open in stunned amazement. 

Lit by the high sun above them, the road at their feet was a blaze of brilliant white light. Spilling from the book in a torrent of magnificence was a pool of diamonds - shimmering fire, that dazzled them with its purity. John seemed to have forgotten how to breathe. 

"By Heaven." He couldn't think of anything else to say, and neither could Will. Had they had Tuck's faith they might have crossed themselves, but as it was they merely stared. It was Nasir who stirred them into action once again, stepping past them to scoop the diamonds back into the mutilated book that was their hiding place. 

"We should go," he told them. He looked unsettled by something, although neither man could see any definite reason for it. Perhaps the thought of the Baron de Belleme had bothered him. 

"Yeah." John took the book, wrapping a length of spare bow cord around it, to ensure that the diamonds couldn't escape. "Don't worry, Hugo. I'm sure somebody will be along to get you out of that lot soon enough." 

"You'll pay for this." Still struggling furiously, with an energy that he did not usually possess, Hugo was fighting to get to them. Will laughed at his fury. 

"I don't think he wants us to take the jewels." 

"You could be right." John tucked the book under his arm. "Come on. We'd better get back. Robin is going to want to see this lot." 

"Yeah." The situation back at camp once again becoming the centre of his thoughts, Will raised a questioning eyebrow, lowering his voice to ask a question he had no wish for de Rainault to overhear. "But which Robin?" 

"Huntingdon." It had been a long time since any of them had thought of Robin that way, let alone called him by that name, but it seemed the only one to use now. "We'll worry about the other one later." 

"Yeah." Will nodded, trying to recapture a little of the cheer he had been enjoying before his thoughts had been turned back to the newly rediscovered Loxley. It didn't quite work, which annoyed him. "Yeah, I guess we'll have to." 

********** 

Back at the camp Huntingdon had returned before the other three, wandering out of the forest with the frustrated, quickened stride that he always used when he was ill at ease. He had been searching for Herne in the forest, and had not been successful in his search. Wherever his ethereal 'father' had gone, it was not somewhere where his son could follow. Huntingdon felt uncertain without Herne's guidance in the matter now before him, for he had no more or less as counsel than he had been told earlier - that the one who had come was everything he appeared to be. He still couldn't decide whether Loxley appeared to be a threat or a friend, though, which didn't help him to work out whether or not he could trust his predecessor. Much's opinion didn't help matters, and Tuck was as confused as Huntingdon himself. It didn't bode terribly well. 

They had put together a simple of meal of bread and fruit, hoping that the others would be returning soon. Loxley dozed beside the fire, dreaming restlessly of old times; of the insidious autumn that had crept up on him when he had last lived within Sherwood, in the days immediately prior to his 'death'. He saw himself swimming with Marion, laughing with the gang, roasting meat over the fire. He saw himself talking with Herne, and heard his shadowy 'father' pronounce the final prediction that he had made, that last, fateful time. _One comes, one goes... _ The images swirled into disorder in his mind, and he felt himself beginning to wake up. He saw trees turning red and gold, and himself, lying on a bed of flowers beneath a canopy of hanging ivy. He saw a man - himself - hidden by a black hood, riding on a cart through Sherwood. He saw a pair of hands, holding a pile of dazzling diamonds; Marion, holding out her hands, imploring, anguished, with tears rolling down her face; Will, stabbing a black-clad man in the back - a man who could only have been Nasir. 

"No!" With a yelp he jolted awake. Tuck frowned. 

"Are you alright?" 

"Dreams." Loxley's dark gaze sought out Huntingdon. "Messages, if I remember the feelings." 

"What messages?" Huntingdon was struggling with his own prophecies that needed deciphering, and would have welcomed the help of anybody. Loxley frowned. 

"You should know. The stones. Marion. Will and Nasir. You must have seen them." 

"Yes." Huntingdon looked at the ground. "I just wish I knew what it means." 

"Danger." Robin straightened up. "We should speak to Marion. If something is going to happen, she should be warned. This obviously concerns her." 

"The last thing that Marion needs is to be dragged into this right now. She's not going to know anything about you being here until... well until we find out if you really are here." Sounds approached them through the forest, and the leader of the band of outlaws turned his back on his predecessor. The others were returning, and that was his priority now. 

"Hey!" Will was in high spirits, bursting through the trees at the edge of camp as though anxious to make as much noise as possible. "We've got special gifts from Abbot Hugo." 

"Oh dear." Tuck couldn't help smiling. "Poor old Abbot Hugo. He's been robbed so many times he's going to give up travelling at all before long." 

"I hope not." John slung the two gold chains down onto the ground beside the fire, along with the few silver coins. "He's worth too much to us for that." 

"Yeah, and that's not all." Will held out his hands, and using his large frame to block the view that the others had of him, John poured the diamonds from the book into the waiting, cupped hands. They fitted, just; a pile of white fire within the doubled palms. "What do you think of this?" 

"Good Heavens." Staring unbelievingly at the diamonds, Tuck shook his head and whispered something reverent in Latin. "Well that'll feed a lot of peasants." 

"Aren't you going to say anything, Robin?" Will was holding out his hands, but Huntingdon could only look at Loxley. They had both seen the pile of diamonds, and they were both unsettled by what was happening now. Scarlet was a little disappointed. 

"This is one of the best hauls we've ever had. Maybe _the_ best. Can't you think of anything to say?" 

"Well done. All of you." Huntingdon was staring at the ground, his mind filled with the other images that had gone with the prediction of the diamonds; Marion; Will and Nasir. What did it all mean? 

"You're even less fun that Naz." Will poured the diamonds on top of the rest of their takings from the day, and Tuck began to load it all into a wooden chest that they kept for the purpose. "The way he's been acting you'd think we'd found ordinary stones, instead of that lot." 

"Something wrong?" Huntingdon had learned to trust Nasir's instincts, and with everything else that seemed to be going on at the moment he was willing to listen to just about anything. The Saracen's dark eyes lingered on the diamonds as they were stowed away; then he took the book they had been contained in from John, and handed it to Tuck. The friar turned it over in his hands, and his eyes nearly leapt from his head. 

"This is a copy of the Bible! It's - it's - it's a sacrilege! It's--" Words clearly failed him, and he held up the book for all of them to see. The pages, stuck together; the hole through the middle. Only the first few pages had escaped mutilation; the title page, and the first few chapters of Genesis. It was in Hebrew rather than the more familiar Latin, and although Tuck did not speak the language, he knew enough from his studies to recognise the names of the books of the Bible as they were listed on the title page. Still apoplectic with indignation he did not continue, but merely put the book down on the ground. 

"The Bible?" Will picked it up and glanced at it, deciding that the unfamiliar alphabet had been the reason why he had failed to recognise the book. "Why would Abbot Hugo have allowed the Bible to be treated like this?" 

"Precisely!" Tuck seemed to have faced quite a struggle to get that one word out, but it had apparently broken his period of furious wordlessness. "What did he say? Where was he heading?" He shook his head. "I knew that he was hardly the most pious of men, but I never thought he would stoop to _this_." 

"He was heading back to Nottingham Castle, I'd say." John sat down beside the fire, pouring himself some wine. Now that autumn was well underway there was a creeping cold within the forest that was not always noticeable until it had taken a firm hold on the limbs, and the wine helped to warm him up even more quickly than did the fire. "That wasn't all, though, was it Nasir. There was that other book." 

"Nasir?" Tuck looked up, his indignation still showing. The Saracen's quiet gaze strayed towards the two Robins, as though he was deferring to both of them, rather than either one of them in particular. 

"A book from the library of de Belleme." Long sentences were not his forte, and the number of his words served to indicate the degree of his seriousness. "A book about devil worship. I saw the baron use it." 

"And our friend Hugo said that it was Church property." Will threw himself down beside the fire. "I can't say as I've spent much of my life in churches, but I reckon things have changed a lot if that's the sort of thing they're into now." 

"It's not." Tuck's eyes, uncharacteristically sharp, flicked back up to look at Nasir. "You're sure?" His only answer was a nod, but it was a resolute one. "Then I'd say that something is most certainly wrong." 

"But what? I know Hugo de Rainault's hardly the most holy man in the Church, but he's certainly no devil worshipper." Loxley couldn't help smiling at the image of the Sheriff's irascible brother daubing blood on himself - and he certainly didn't want to think about him dancing naked, whether it was at midnight or at any other time of the day or night. Tuck nodded, agreeing with his opinion. 

"The Abbott de Rainault is definitely in the job for the money, but he still takes his position more seriously than a lot of other abbots I've known." 

"Perhaps he didn't know that that book was in the collection, " suggested John. His expression was one of dry amusement. "There are one or two people in the world who don't read Arabic and Greek." 

"I might believe that if I hadn't see this." Tuck gestured at the Bible. "Any man of the cloth would know it for what it is. You don't have to understand Hebrew to recognise the layout, and the reverence of the script. The question is, who around here would have a copy of the Bible, in Hebrew, on their bookshelf?" 

"A Jew?" suggested Huntingdon. Like most educated men, he was aware of the parallels between Christianity and Judaism. Tuck nodded. 

"Perhaps. But not a practising one, if he's prepared to do this. These chapters are as sacred to the Jews as they are to Christians, and no man who puts any sort of value on either faith would do this to them. I wouldn't do it if I had a hundred other identical copies." He shook his head. "I think it's something else, Robin, though it pains me to say it. There are those who would find it amusing to use such a book for a purpose like this." 

"The sort of people who would also have books on devil worship." Will shook his head. "We do find them, don't we." 

"They're attracted to the area. Sherwood has its spirits and its centres of power." Huntingdon frowned and turned back to Tuck. "Why would a person like that have a copy of the Bible anyway though?" 

"Some spells call for it." Tuck crossed himself, and changed the subject slightly. "But a Hebrew Bible? Hebrew is such an ancient language, far older than Latin. Any spells that call for it would be..." He shivered. "They would be far stronger, more terrible than others, I'm sure of it. Hebrew Bibles aren't easy to come by in England though." 

"But somebody who learnt his devil worship in a country where it's a common language could easy have got that Bible while he was out there." Loxley was conscious that his contributions to the conversation would not necessarily be welcome whilst everyone was still so suspicious of him, but he spoke up anyway, looking around at them all as he did so. "We all know at least one man who fits that description." 

"And according to Nasir the book came from his library." John shook his head. "De Belleme. I keep hoping that we've seen the last of that one." 

"Then go on hoping." Will grabbed for the wine, and took a long drink. "I'm not convinced though. There's no reason why old Hugo would be working with a devil worshipper like that. Although if de Belleme is causing trouble again, it might just explain why Robin is back. Always had a special regard for you, didn't he." 

"Yes." Loxley remembered the Silver Arrow, and its part in the death and resurrection of the evil baron. Both events had been at his own instigation, although he had been bewitched on the second occasion. He wondered if Will's suggestion was the truth, and he was back here, alive, because the Baron de Belleme had caused it to be so. The thought made him cold to his very heart. 

"If the baron is back, won't he be coming to get his diamonds?" Much's quavering voice made them all draw their minds away from thoughts of larger issues, and returned them to the more immediate present. It was Loxley who answered. 

"Maybe. It would help to know why he needs them in the first place. They're no good to him as currency, and he's not the type for collecting jewellery for its own sake. Any ideas, Nasir?" The dark head bowed slightly, though hesitantly, in its customary single nod. It had been a long time, but the things that Nasir had seen and heard in the castle of the Baron de Belleme were not things that he would ever easily forget. 

"He had many jewels. They were for powerful magic. For focus." Clearly he didn't understand the workings of it all, but as far as Huntingdon was concerned they had heard enough. 

"Then we should get rid of them. I doubt he can follow them here, but once he hears from de Rainault who it was that stole them, he'll have a pretty good head start." 

"And if he's got something planned for them, it seems like a good idea for us to get them out of the way." Scarlet appeared to be volunteering for the task. "There are all kinds of folk tales about this sort of stuff, so there's no telling what he might use them for in his spells. Why not sell them right away and have done with them?" 

"Sounds like sense to me," put in Tuck. Huntingdon was silent for a moment. 

"Yes," he said finally, although apparently with some reluctance. "Since they let the Jews back into Nottingham we've been making one or two friends among them. They're probably the best people to go to. Nasir, you'd better go. They don't all speak English." The Saracen inclined his head in quiet acceptance of the mission, and rose smoothly to his feet. Will also jumped up. 

"He's not going alone," he said firmly. "It's not safe. Not for any of us." Nasir's ever-expressive face queried the suggestion that he might not be capable of looking after himself, but Will was unrepentant. "We don't know how many people might be out there, and we don't know who they are, or what they want, or what they're capable of. It's crazy to send one man off alone." 

"Yes. Yes, you're right." Huntingdon nodded, although he still didn't seem very happy with the situation. "Go ahead Will. You too John." 

"You'll be alright here?" John didn't like the idea of leaving so few people behind in the camp, for Loxley's rôle had not yet been established, and Much was still not much of a fighter. Huntingdon nodded. 

"We'll be fine." It seemed sensible to send three of them with such a valuable cargo, and he didn't want Nasir and Will to be alone together following his vision of them. Preventing Will from going would likely be counter-productive though, for it would almost certainly lead to resentment on his part. He was eager for the mission, and would be better suited to it than either Tuck or Much. "Travel as fast as you can, be careful, and wait until night before you enter the town. You know where to head for once you're inside." 

"Aye, we know." Fishing out an old sheepskin pouch, John filled it with the diamonds, drawing the string tight so that they were sealed inside. "We'll be back by morning if we can, but we might have to hide somewhere until tomorrow night, and make our way out then." 

"Just play it safe. If there's any chance that the Baron de Belleme is in Nottingham I don't want any of you being seen by him. He won't be fooled by disguises, and he won't let you go if he's got any chance of preventing it. You know the sort of man that he is." Loxley's words seemed natural given the circumstances, and had it not been for Huntingdon sitting beside him they might almost have forgotten the extraordinary circumstances of his presence. It felt just as it had always done, when he had led them in the days before his departure. The days before his death. Uncomfortable, uncertain, the threesome nodded their understanding and turned to leave. 

"I don't like this." Tuck stared after them, the look on his face suggesting that he expected the baron to leap out at them at any second. "None of this seems right. The Abbot Hugo of all people..." 

"I know." Pouring himself a drink, Huntingdon looked around at the untouched meal that they had prepared. He certainly didn't feel like eating it now, but life in the forest over the past year had taught him to eat when food was available. If they were facing the prospect of getting caught up in something unpredictable, there was no telling how regular meals would be from now on. He toyed with a piece of bread. "Perhaps I shouldn't have let the others leave." 

"What else could you have done?" Tuck shook his head. "Don't worry about it Robin." 

"I can't help worrying." Throwing the bread aside, he got up and headed away across the clearing. "I'm going for a walk. I need... I need to think." 

"Be careful." Tuck's gentle warning made Huntingdon smile, and he nodded. 

"I will. I'll be back soon. Stay on watch, Much, and if you see anybody who isn't one of us - no matter who it is - you're all to stay hidden until they've gone. Understand?" 

"Alright Robin." The boy headed off into the branches of the tall tree that they had chosen to be their watch point. Robin watched him go. Why did he feel so uneasy? What was this lingering unrest that would not leave his mind alone? Perhaps a quiet walk in the forest would cure it. Something had to. The way that things were going now, if the tension didn't break soon he felt that he would surely go mad. Shouldering his bow, he paced restlessly away into the forest. Tuck watched him go. 

"I wouldn't be in that lad's shoes right now," he commented idly. Loxley stared at him, then lowered his eyes. 

"I'm sorry," he said flatly, and lay back on the short grass. "I should have stayed away." 

And Tuck didn't have an answer for that. 

********** 

Will, John and Nasir were striding down the middle of the road again, the two Englishmen doing their best to lighten the situation with a conversation. They had settled on the topic of a recent feast day in Wickham, which was the least contentious subject they had could think of, and were trying to enjoy reminiscing over their drunken experiences of the day. It didn't work, and their thoughts kept returning to the two Robins, and the difficult question of what was to happen. 

"I wish Marion would come back." John shouldered his quarter-staff, moving it about awkwardly as though looking for the most comfortable position in which to carry it. In reality he was just restless. "She'd know if Robin - the first one - is who he says he is." 

"How? She's not magic." Will shook his head. "Anyway, she's not going to come back just like that, is she. She was in love with him." 

"Well then you'd think she'd want to see him again, wouldn't you." John frowned, remembering the situation that had existed between Marion and the second Robin. "I would. I think." 

"Yeah, but you're not a woman, are you. She lost the love of her life, and then sort of fell in love with his replacement, and then--" Will broke off, for he still wasn't entirely sure what had happened there. Marion had loved Loxley, that much had always been clear, but it had become obvious to all of them that she would soon have fallen for Huntingdon, if she had spent much more time in his company. Huntingdon certainly loved her, and always had. "Mess everything up, that would I reckon. Having Marion coming back, getting Robin jealous, and making Robin... well it would all be a mess, wouldn't it." 

"Yeah, I suppose." John wandered along for a bit in silence. "Confuses matters, doesn't it. Having two men in love with the same woman." 

"You're telling me." Will grinned, finally thinking of a way that would help them to change the subject to something less disturbing. "The last woman I fell in love with was when I was back in Lichfield - you know, before Huntingdon got us all back together. Alice, her name was. She was a kitchen maid." 

"Pretty?" 

"Yeah. Then one day I went to visit her a bit earlier than usual, and I found her in bed with the cartwright." 

"Poor old Will." John banged him on the back in an faintly conciliatory manner. "Bad shock?" 

"You're telling me. He wasn't even a decent cartwright. None of his axles were straight, and he had bad breath." Scarlet shrugged. "We're not all good at getting loyal women, the way you are. How is Meg, anyway? I haven't seen her in a while." 

"You won't." John had a smile on his face that wasn't entirely genuine, although there was no real sadness reflected in his eyes. "She's going to marry her cousin, from the next village. They've got a child on the way already, apparently. Seems she decided to look elsewhere, after I called off our wedding that time." 

"Doesn't want to be waiting forever for an outlaw that won't leave his forest?" Will shook his head. "Sorry John." 

"It's alright." The big man was silent for a while, then smiled. "Maybe they'll name their first child after me." 

"Well then I hope it's not a girl." Scarlet grinned, casting a glance back over his shoulder at Nasir. "How about you, Naz? Who was the last girl you fell in love with?" His answer was a small smile, but he was not expecting words. Nasir never joined in with conversations of a personal nature. He shrugged slightly now though, and surprised both of his companions with a few words. 

"A long time ago. In my own country." 

"And there were we thinking you'd been celibate all your life." Will laughed his raucous laugh. "What was her name?" He was answered with a pause so long that he began to think Nasir had decided to end his contribution to the discussion; then the Saracen frowned slightly at some distant memory, and smiled a very small smile. 

"Sumina. She was from the Moorish lands. The widow of a general who fought with my father." 

"And?" John was eager to hear more, but as always Nasir was not one for words. His eyebrows moved, showing the shadows of several conflicting emotions. "Well how did you meet?" 

"And was it romantic?" added Will, although he was probably the least romantic of the lot of them. Nasir's eyebrow arched, in a familiar expression of faint humour. 

"When I was first captured, before I was sold to the baron. She was already a prisoner." 

"Oh, well." John couldn't help laughing. "Nothing more romantic than a crowded dungeon. The bad food, the slime on the walls. Never fails to turn a lady's head." 

"Yeah, but what _happened_?" Will wanted to hear the end of the tale, but had to wait some time before Nasir spoke again. 

"I was taken away," he said simply. The other two shared a look, before John erupted into a shout of violent laughter. 

"We're a sorry bunch, aren't we. Tuck's probably had better luck with women than we have." 

"Course he has. Women like bald men." Will shook his head. "We're going to have to think of something more cheerful to talk about, or we're all going to be depressed long before we reach Nottingham." 

"Speak for yourself." John was still laughing, though quietly now. He was feeling better for it, even though they were all still uneasy. Showing plenty of that unease himself, Will waved a hand at him suddenly, trying to hush him. 

"Did you hear that?" 

"Hear what?" Managing to be serious, John looked backwards and forwards along the road. "There's nobody coming." 

"I'm not so sure." Will listened again, then shrugged when he heard nothing further. "Maybe I'm wrong. Did you hear anything Nasir?" 

"Yes." The dark eyes were looking every way at once. John recognised the wary look within them. "But I don't know what." 

"Think we should leave the road?" Will's inquiry was at half his usual volume. John nodded. 

"Yeah. Might be for the best. Move easy, we--" He didn't finish the sentence, for up ahead, moving out of the bushes the way Robin's men themselves so often did, were three soldiers. They carried bows ready levelled, arrows pointing straight ahead. John's face hardened. 

"Back into the trees," he hissed, keeping his voice low. "Get ready to run. We'll find a higher position and take them out." 

"Right." Easing an arrow from his quiver, Will slid it into his bow, walking backwards slowly all the time. His progress was soon stilled, however, when Nasir laid a hand on his shoulder. Scarlet turned. Coming towards them from the opposite direction, also with readied bows, were three more soldiers. They looked dirty from their wait in the undergrowth, their blue cloaks spattered with mud, and they were clearly eager to fire. Scarlet's expression darkened. 

"What now?" 

"We still head back into the trees." John darted a look over his shoulder. "Don't waste time shooting. Just run. Ready?" 

"You'd better believe it." Will took a step, trying to see every which way at once. There were other noises coming from around them, all of which bothered him greatly, but right now there was no chance of finding out what was their source. He got ready to run. 

"Now! John's voice echoed clearly, and the three friends moved as one, dashing to where the trees crept up to the road's rough edge. Something loomed above them; something well camouflaged. Something that instinct told Will deserved his full attention. He glanced up - to see a net come dropping towards them. Nasir gave a shout of warning and tried to push John clear, but weighted down as it so clearly was, the net moved too fast. In the blink of an eye it was upon them. Nasir fought briefly then fell still, and trapped beneath John, Will could do nothing at all. He saw a shadow fall across them, and looked up into the amused eyes of Abbot Hugo de Rainault. 

"Well well well, isn't this nice." Beaming at them in the placid way of a benevolent old monk, Hugo allowed a flash of something considerably less pleasant to burn in his eyes. "Never let it be said that I don't learn from example." 

"How-?" Will fell silent, determined not to give de Rainault any enjoyment from his futile anger. Hugo smiled at him. 

"You'll recognise the net of course. It's a little patched in places perhaps, but definitely still serviceable. Now which of you has those diamonds?" 

"We left them back at our camp," John told him, voice furious in its defiance. A soldier kicked him. 

"I don't believe you." Hugo shrugged. "But no matter. I'll find them soon enough. Men?" There were more soldiers now; obviously some kind of relief group that had chanced upon the entangled abbot, and had swelled his forces accordingly. Several of them bent to take hold of the net, whilst several others aimed their arrows at the captured trio. Struggling to avoid the hampering mesh, John managed to lay a hand on Nasir's arm, warning him not to try anything. It was not easy to quell his own instincts for battle, but he knew hopeless odds when he saw them. He had lost his bow when the net had fallen, and his quarter-staff was no longer in his hand. 

"Don't bother trying to fight," warned Hugo, making Will seethe. "You wouldn't have a chance, and it's so much more enjoyable to have live prisoners. Dead ones only clutter the place up, and Gisburne would want to display you somewhere inconvenient." 

"Well we'd hate to get in the way." The net had lifted slightly, and John found that he could move his foot. He wondered if there was something, perhaps, that he could do, but decided in the end that there wasn't. Furious at his own impotency, he tried to focus his mind beyond what was happening. It wasn't easy. 

"Robin's going to kill us for this." Will's voice, in his ear, helped to ease the tension a little. Seconds later the net lifted away, and they could move again. John tightened his grip on Nasir's arm. 

"Get off me then!" Struggling under the weight of his friend, Will tried to stand up. John moved slowly, carefully, keeping his eyes on the soldiers. None of them had made a move as yet but he didn't want to be the last to do so. Hugo was still beaming at them all. He didn't seem quite himself, but clearly he was in an extremely efficient mood. 

"Take them." He pronounced the order quickly, sharply, then turned on his heel and walked a few paces away. John steeled himself as the soldiers grabbed him, dragging him to his feet. His two friends were treated the same way, hauled upright by mailed hands determined not to be too gentle. Their weapons were taken with ruthless efficiency, their quivers stripped off, their swords removed. It took the soldiers a few moments to relieve Nasir of the unfamiliar harness that fixed his swords to his back, but they worked fast and without patience, and soon the task was done. All three outlaws had daggers hidden about them, but there seemed no point in trying to use them yet. 

"Very good." Striding back over, smoothing the flowing purple folds of his robe, Hugo surveyed the scene with obvious pleasure. Will fought the desire to punch the smile right off the abbot's face, and contented himself was glaring back at the other man with the sort of force that usually worried the toughest of soldiers. Hugo, however, didn't seem to register it at all. 

"Tie them up." His interest was waning, as though now that he had the outlaws he didn't care about them anymore. "And find me those diamonds." 

"Sir." One of the guards saluted, then nodded to his men. One at a time, first Will, then Nasir, then John, the three prisoners were thrown against the surrounding trees, forced to lean there, held immobile, whilst they were searched. A couple of daggers joined the pile of weaponry on the ground, before finally a young looking soldier came up with John's sheepskin pouch. He held it out to Hugo. 

"Excellent." Peering into the pouch, the abbot looked rather relieved. "Now hurry up and let's get out of here, shall we? I'd prefer to be back in Nottingham before the King of Sherwood finds out we've borrowed his men." 

"He won't catch us, sir." The leader of the soldiers gestured to his men once again, and the three outlaws were quickly and securely bound, then dragged back to the road. Another few of Nottingham's blue-cloaked finest had brought up the abbot's cart, and he climbed onto it with a rather muted display of his usual, would-be regal splendour. 

"A fast march, I think." The captain nodded, although his eyes glowered a different sort of answer. Why was it that these people only wanted a fast march when they themselves were riding? He directed his men to fall into formation behind the cart, the three prisoners, separated as much as they could be, secure in the middle of the square. 

"On your command, sir." At the back of the group, conscious of the threat of attack, he turned his eyes away from the forest and back onto the Abbot de Rainault. He had been confident of escaping, but now he felt that the forest was watching him with a thousand hidden eyes. Hugo nodded, and whipped up the reins of the horse that pulled his cart. Together, at a fast and uncomfortable speed, the soldiers and their prisoners marched on in the vehicle's wake. Despite the captain's fears there was only one pair of eyes watching them as they left, and those belonged to a large black crow that circled far above. Waiting until they were well on their way, it ceased its watchful revolutions, and with a screeching, strangely triumphant cry, headed with purpose for Nottingham. 

********** 


	2. Two

Loxley had been dozing for some while; the trouble, restless sleep of a man with little peace of mind. Tuck left him alone, bothered by his own thoughts, sipping from a mug of ale without any real appreciation of the taste. The day was growing older now, and Huntingdon still had not returned. Tuck felt sorry for the boy, but he didn't know how to help him. They were all feeling the strain, and he was certain that Loxley was no exception. 

"It all seems so different." The voice of his former leader intruded into his thoughts, and he turned back to look at the young man. He had changed so little, and he couldn't help thinking - wishing... But that was foolish. Loxley was not supposed to be here, and there seemed no way that he could stay. 

"What does?" He tried to inject a little cheer into his voice, as though they were merely having an ordinary conversation, under ordinary conditions. Loxley gestured around. 

"Everything. The forest... the... the camp... Didn't we make camp near here once before?" 

"Very early on. Not long after we'd first come together. Nearby is where we ducked Guy of Gisburne in the river." Tuck smiled at the memory, but the smile soon fell. Robin nodded. 

"I thought so. I wasn't sure. I don't... I don't feel like I know the forest quite as I used to. I don't feel... quite like myself. I suppose it's because it's the first time I've been here without Herne being near." 

"I'm sure he hasn't forsaken you." It was the only thing that Tuck could think of to say, and Robin nodded. 

"Thankyou. I hope you're right. If he ignores me... well then I'll know that I'm lost, won't I. I'll know that I have no right to be here - and what happens then? Do I have to die all over again? Do I just... cease to exist? Am I really here at all?" He shook his head. "It's all so confusing, Tuck. I wish I knew why I came back." 

"Maybe you never went away." 

"That's what I keep hoping. I tell myself that somebody must have found me, looked after me all this time. But how, and where? And why? Herne's prediction told me of my death, even if I didn't realise it at the time. If somebody did find me, and nurse me back to health - well it doesn't change anything. I should still be dead. Fate has rules, and the son of Herne has no place breaking those rules. Even Herne himself couldn't save me." 

"I know, lad. I know." Tuck poked at the fire, feeling the need of added warmth. Winter was creeping in so slowly, like some insidious foe ready to spring a trap. "You must have a lot of questions that need answering. I know that I do." 

"A _lot_ of questions." This time, though, Robin managed a smile. "But perhaps you can answer some of them. I want to know what happened. So much has changed among the gang, Tuck. I can see it - feel it. Much for instance. He's... grown. Not in size perhaps, but in other ways." 

"Aye." Tuck nodded fondly. "He's grown up alright. Turning into a fine young man I'd say. Still a mite nervous, and he's not found all his strengths yet, but he's growing up well. You played a fine part in that, Robin. He learnt a lot from you." 

"Maybe." Robin remembered those tentative early weeks, following the death of Much's parents and the destruction of his home. He hadn't felt that he was teaching the boy anything then, except hardship and pain. He had blamed himself for turning Much into an outlaw, even though he had known that he wasn't really responsible. He had blamed his own unusual destiny for dragging his brother into the bitter quest against injustice. Now he wasn't sure anymore, for it was too hard to imagine what else might have been. 

"There's no maybe about it, lad. He learnt a good deal from you, and he's put it to fine use. I see it every time I look at him, and I know that Mar--" He broke off, and a frown creased Robin's brow. 

"What? You were going to say something about Marion." 

"Foolish of me." Silently Tuck was berating himself for having so loose a tongue, and broaching the one topic of conversation guaranteed to make Loxley feel even worse. "I was just going to say that I know Marion saw it as well. She told me once, how proud you'd have been of him, and I saw how proud she was herself." 

"Oh Marion." Robin couldn't stop the longing that welled up inside him. Everything that he had done had been for her; every arrow that he had taken, when he had believed he had been facing the end of his life, had been for her. So that she could go on living, so that she could go on fighting, so that she could go on remembering. He could feel each of those wounds again now, tearing his flesh just as the pain of being away from the girl he loved was tearing at his heart. Tuck looked away. 

"You said you had questions." It wasn't much of a way to distract Robin, but it was a start. Loxley dragged his mind away from the pit inside him, and nodded his head. If he could concentrate on the friar's words, maybe he would feel a little less pain. 

"I wanted to know what happened. When I... When I died. This other fellow..." 

"Huntingdon." Tuck was smiling now. "Aye, Huntingdon. You'd like him, Robin. He'd like you too, if you could just... well if you didn't have all these worries hanging over you both. He's the son of the Earl of Huntingdon; royal blood you know. Herne chose him even before you left us, apparently. He rescued us from Gisburne. Remember how you were on your own?" 

"I could never forget." Not one moment of that day could ever be erased from Robin's memory. How could it be? The look he had seen in Marion's eyes, at the moment when he had given her Albion; the last time he had held her in his arms. Tuck nodded. 

"Of course. Well the rest of us were in a right mess. Gisburne had us tied up in a building in Wickham. Suddenly this hooded fellow came in, cut us free, and went hurrying off somewhere, like he'd disappeared in a puff of smoke. Then later - quite some time later - he came to us, and said it was time for us to follow a new leader. Herne's orders I suppose. He's a brave lad. The people love him." 

"Good." There was no jealousy in Loxley's mind, although it hurt a little to see how popular his successor was amongst the band. "And before then - before he came back to lead you. You were continuing the work?" 

"No." Tuck's eyes drifted downwards, staring sheepishly at the ground. "We let you down, Robin. We let everybody down. After we realised you were... dead... we argued. Everything seemed to go wrong, and we sort of... well we drifted apart I suppose. Grief does strange things to men, and even stranger things to friends..." He shook his head. "Marion couldn't stand it. She went back to her father, and he got her a royal pardon. She tried to live a proper life again, but she never really adjusted to it. I stayed here, in Sherwood, to be close to her. But I didn't carry on your work, Robin. I might have robbed a few people here and there, but it was nothing. Nothing at all." 

"And the others?" 

"Much and John went off to Hathersage to become shepherds. Will - Will went to work in an inn of all things, up in Lichfield. As for Nasir, well who can tell what he got up to? All I know is that Robin - Huntingdon that is - found him in the castle of Owen of Clun, the day that he rescued Marion from the same place. How long he'd been there, and where he'd been before... well you know how Nasir is." 

"Yes." Robin couldn't help smiling. "Although he's changed too. I can see it in his eyes." 

"Aye, maybe. He speaks a little more now I suppose." Tuck smiled. "Still more likely to get blood from a stone than you are to get anything like a conversation out of him though. I suppose he's a bit more relaxed these days. The time we spent apart, after you went, changed us all. Made us realise how much we needed each other." 

"And it was Huntingdon who brought you back together." Loxley wondered if it was jealousy that he was starting to feel now, and wished that he could be sure that it wasn't. The dead had no right to feel jealous of the living, and Huntingdon must be a good man if he had been chosen by Herne. He didn't want to dislike him. "He convinced you all that he was the new Hooded Man." 

"Aye, he did. He fought me, right here in the forest. And he found John and Much and Will. Then he went off to rescue Marion, and found Nasir as well. And back we all came to Sherwood, all feeling like things would never be the same again. But the people wanted you back, and the Sheriff had never really believed that you'd gone. It was like... well it was almost like you hadn't." He smiled. "We soon had things back to normal. Everybody afraid of the shadows in the forest, the Sheriff losing his taxes, the people getting them back again. Aye, Huntingdon knows what he's doing I reckon." 

"Good." At least he knew that his friends were safe, and his people, and the destiny he had given his life to. It was comforting, in a strange, detached sort of way to know that, in his absence, everything was looked after. When he went away again, back to wherever it was that dead men went, he could be sure that things would continue to be well. Tuck reached out to him, laying a fatherly hand on his shoulder. 

"We'll find out why you're here, lad, I promise you that. We'll find out what's going on." 

"What the Baron de Belleme is up to." Robin felt a pricking on the back of his neck, and rubbed absently at it. It was his sixth sense toying with him, and he recognised the feeling; the sensation that he was being watched. He frowned and looked about, but could see nobody. Perhaps he was merely feeling the presence of Much, somewhere up in the trees. 

"I wonder where John and the others are?" Tuck poured himself another mug of ale, and offered one to Robin as well. Loxley shook his head. He didn't feel thirsty, just as he didn't feel hungry. He didn't remember having eaten or drunk anything since the day he had died, and he didn't feel the need for anything now. More evidence, surely, that he had no place in this world. Again the prickling sensation bothered him, and again he could find no source. 

"Something's bothering you." Tuck was frowning at him, and Robin saw no point in denying it. He nodded. 

"I feel that there's somebody watching me. Watching us." 

"You're anxious. All this talk of the baron..." 

"No, it's more than that." He felt the thoughts within his thoughts; the stirrings of that power that had always been his. The power of foresight; of seeing what had not yet happened. He saw a pentagram; saw fires; saw the Baron de Belleme chanting his terrible prayers. He heard shouting and animals howling; the clash of steel; the crackling of powerful flames. He felt uneasy, and he knew then that something terrible was coming. Suddenly he could no longer see the forest; could no longer see Tuck's concerned face, or smell the warm ash of the campfire. Instead he was in the dark grotto; the place where he had first been taken by Herne. 

"Have you forgotten me my son?" Herne's voice was just as he remembered it; just as powerful; just as ethereal; just as magical whilst yet still human. "Have you forgotten who you are?" 

"Nothing is forgotten." He could hardly speak, so great was the joy in his heart. "Nothing is ever forgotten." 

"Good." Herne came towards him, his presence so real that it no longer felt like a dream. "The tides are changing, Robin i' the Hood. And we must change with them, before it is too late." 

"I don't understand." He could hardly see, for the grotto was too dark. Smoke was rising; a smoke with a familiar smell. "Why am I here, Herne? Why aren't I dead?" 

"Not dead, not yet alive." The voice was all around him, comforting and unsettling, reassuring and disturbing. "The Fates must be paid. There must be a sacrifice. Nothing can be whole again until all is balanced." 

"You mean I have to die." Robin lowered his head. Would he be permitted to see Marion again before he had to leave, or would that make it harder for both of them? "Will it be soon? What about the Baron de Belleme?" 

"The baron feeds on powers awoken by misfortune, and with every day that he does so, I grow weaker. He has begun to suck the strength from my very essence, and his powers still continue to grow. He will become stronger still, Robin, and nothing will stop him until balance is restored. Nothing can stop his powers from consuming Sherwood, destroying me, destroying perhaps the whole of England, except the achieving of the balance that has been lost. _Nothing_ can be whole until _all_ is balanced. The one that was dead must die again." Herne's hands were on Loxley's shoulders, and words were dancing before his eyes; a vision of parchment, inscribed with ancient ink: _One must again be dead before victory can come to the Lord of the Hunt_. "The words of Gildas, my son, written in the suffering of all of us. There is much for you to do, Robin i' the Hood. Too much, perhaps, for you alone." 

"John, Will and Nasir..." 

"Have need of you. But they must wait. They have their own paths to travel." 

"They're in danger. I see... I see darkness. The baron--" 

"Concern yourself only with de Belleme, my son. He is the great unbalancer; the one who brings the powers of light and darkness to the point of greatest chaos. Stop him." 

"But Herne, I have so many questions. I--" 

"There must be balance, my son." Herne's voice was fading, and the smoke was beginning to rise. "Nothing can be whole again until all is balanced. The one that was dead must be dead again." 

"Herne!" His eyes snapped open, and everything was gone. He was in the clearing again, in the camp with Tuck, where only an ordinary fire was burning. The friar was looking at him with concern in his eyes. 

"Are you alright Robin?" His gentle voice was filled with worry, and Robin was touched to hear it. He laid a hand on the loyal friar's arm. 

"Tuck... Tuck I have to go. I know that Huntingdon told you to keep me here, and I'm sorry. I don't want to fight you, or to make things hard for you... But I have to go." 

"Aye, I know." Tuck was nodding. "I knew that as soon as I saw the look that just came over your face. Such resolution, lad. The look I saw a hundred times, when I thought you were rushing headlong off to your death." He smiled. "I should try to stop you." 

"Will you?" 

"Of course not." Tuck's eyes narrowed. "But there's danger, isn't there. For all of us." 

"For the whole of Sherwood. Perhaps for the whole of the world, I don't know. Tuck listen. John and the others, they've been captured. I'm not sure, but I think they've been taken to Nottingham. You have to find Huntingdon, and tell him." 

"And you?" 

"I have to go to Marion." He knew it now, and knew that he wasn't acting just out of desire. He needed her at his side, just as he had always needed her in the past. "She'll listen to me, and she'll believe me. I know she will. She'll help me." 

"She always was the other half of you, Robin." Tuck rose to his feet, hauling the other man upright as well. "But you'll not go alone. You should take Much." 

"Yes. Yes, I think I should." Much had been there as well, that last day. It had been the three of them, together and alone, who had faced the end. They should be together again now. Maybe they would both be seeing him off to his death again, just as they had done before; but that didn't matter. What mattered was that he do as Herne had asked. 

"Where are you going? After you've found Marion I mean. Where will you head for?" 

"Back here, if I've heard no different from Herne. I'd like the rest of you to come with me if there's any chance of it, but if there's need for a greater hurry... I can't be sure. I just know that the powers of light and darkness will lead me to de Belleme, when the time comes." In his mind he could see where the baron would be found, or so he thought. A building that was as magnificent as a castle, yet as run down as a crumbling shed. A place where the shadows were more real than that walls, and where a giant metal pentagram, lit by hot, red fires, burned in the central hall. He would know it, and he would find it. Herne's magic would lead him there. 

"Good luck Robin." Tuck couldn't help feeling that it was the end again. He hadn't had a chance, the last time, to wish his friend on his way. He hadn't known then that he was seeing Robin for the last time. This time might be different, but he still had nothing that he could say. How many times had he wished that he could have said goodbye before? Why then was he so tongue-tied now? 

"Thankyou. And good luck to you too." They embraced, briefly, and in the eyes of his old friend Tuck saw resolution and peace; the same, steady strength that he had always seen in the past. He knew now, without a shadow of a doubt, that it was not evil magic that had brought Robin of Loxley back to them. This truly was the son of Herne the Hunter. He clapped the young man on the back, and whispered, in his heart of hearts, a prayer to the God that he knew watched over them all. Robin walked away. 

He walked quickly, with strong, even strides; no unnatural hurry, no unnatural rhythm. If he suspected that he was going to his death he didn't seem to be shying from it; and when he called out to Much there was no irregularity in his voice; no quaver or suggestion of fear. He was merely Robin, calling to his foster brother, striding back out into the forest that had always been his. Tuck watched them go, and felt himself smiling. If the Baron de Belleme truly had some evil purpose; if he truly was planning some new reign of evil; there was no shortage of hope that he would be defeated. No evil had ever stood a chance in Sherwood Forest when once the son of Herne had made up his mind to fight. 

********** 

Little John was uncomfortable. He was cold, he was stiff, and he was beginning to get rather hungry, even though he realised the essential oddness of that last. How he could even think about food was a mystery to him, but he couldn't deny that he felt hungry nonetheless. He had no idea how much time had passed since his capture, and even less idea how much longer it had been since he had eaten anything. His stomach thought that it was too long, and that was all that was important. 

They had been taken straight to Nottingham Castle, where Hugo had delivered them into the waiting hands of an oddly subdued Guy of Gisburne. John assumed that the insufferable steward was just feeling cross that he hadn't been the one to capture them. Hugo didn't seem in the mood to gloat, though, and had wandered off as though content that his own part in the proceedings was done. It had made John suspicious, but he had never had any idea how the mind of a man like Hugo de Rainault worked. He didn't particularly want to understand the man, and so didn't bother trying. 

After a few preliminary mutterings about the impossibility of escape - the usual speech, which Gisburne didn't seem inclined to change even though he was forever losing his prisoners these days - the threesome had been marched down to the dungeons. For once they had qualified for the proper cells - no more deep pits with barred lids where they were incarcerated together in companionable discomfort. Perhaps Gisburne had finally learned from past mistakes. Instead he had ordered that they be split up, and each locked into one of the ordinary cells, the kind with a simple door fitted with a small, barred window. The doors were made of oak, and were several inches thick, the walls were fashioned from immense chunks of grey stone, and the whole was a cold, damp affair decidedly lacking in cheer. The cold and the damp were a particular issue, for the three outlaws had been chained to the walls, and there was therefore no escaping their clammy, chilled presence. 

Shifting awkwardly, John tried to ease the stiffness in his shoulders and arms, and wished that they could have found a more comfortable position to leave him in. At least his feet were touching the ground; he'd seen prisoners before who didn't even have that comfort. Here the iron ring fixed to the wall above his head was so low that it would have allowed a much smaller man to stand squarely on the ground; with the result that John was rather stooped. It made his back ache, and did nothing to improve his mood. The fact that they had been searched again on arriving at the dungeons, and his carefully secreted dagger had been confiscated, had certainly done nothing to cheer him. He had had high hopes for that knife, and even though, as it had turned out, there wouldn't have been much he could have done with it, he still felt its loss rather keenly. He felt helpless, and that wasn't something that he was used to. 

It was partly due to Will that he felt so bad. He could hear the sounds coming from the cell next door, where he knew that Scarlet had been incarcerated, and it was clear that an interrogation was well underway. Gisburne and a team of soldiers were trying to find out where Robin was, and where their camp was situated. They had tried with Nasir earlier, and John knew that it would be his turn next. He felt nothing about that, which surprised him, but after listening to all that had happened to his friends he felt that it would be better to suffer himself. It would be easier than hearing, and imagining. He heard thuds and blows as the soldiers set about with their cudgels and their fists, and heard the occasional grunts of pain that Scarlet could not hold back. He was not telling them anything of course, and John knew that, when it was his turn, he would not tell them anything either. They probably expected that - must have suspected it, yet they seemed anxious to persist none the less. From the outset their interrogation had been doomed to failure, which made it all the more fitting that it had been Nasir they had chosen to speak to first. He had, predictably enough, made not the slightest sound during the proceedings, and John could only imagine the frustration that such a reaction had engendered. He could only assume that his Saracen friend was still alive, for he had heard nothing from him since then. He tried to tell himself not to be so morose, and that of course Nasir was still alive; but he couldn't be entirely sure, and that hurt him. He wished that the soldiers would hurry up and come to his cell. At least then he would know what his friends were being made to face. 

Guy of Gisburne was furious, in the stiff, wordless, frustrated way that he experienced so often. He had been delighted at the idea of having three of Robin Hood's infuriating outlaws in his grasp; delighted at the idea of finding out where the infernal Hood was hiding. They would tell him, he had been sure of that. How could anybody resist his men, with their metal gloved fists and their heavy sticks? People always caved in in the end. Always. 

Except these men. It had begun with the Saracen. Gisburne had chosen him to be the first simply because his was the first cell they had come to. He had walked in, with his men behind him, to find Nasir stand motionless, staring ahead with the same disturbing expression of quiet acceptance that Gisburne had seen him show before, when he had captured him on the day that the first Robin Hood had died. Gisburne had paced about, asking questions, receiving no answers, and wishing that the confounded man would at least _blink_. There had been no answers of course, but he had been expecting that. Nobody spoke without a little persuasion. He had ordered his men to move in, and had repeated his questions - repeated them until they had become tired even to his own ears - and still the Saracen had not moved, or even turned his head. Gisburne had been extremely unsettled by that impassive face; by the utter silence; by the eternally calm, steady eyes. When the worst that his men could do had not won him so much as a gasp of pain, he had called a petulant end to the proceedings, and had led his men on to the next cell instead. Will Scarlet's insulting smirk had been annoying, but at least it hadn't been as unsettling as that unbreakable stare. 

They had started simply, just as they had started before. From the outset Scarlet's response had been different to Nasir's. He had made a few jokes, thrown a few insults Gisburne's way. There had even been glimmers of fear in his eyes, which had been _something_. Just not enough. He had muttered and raged at them, threatened them and sworn at them; but he didn't tell them a thing of any use about Robin Hood. Only once did he seem to crack, when the pain became too great, and he cried out. Gisburne was delighted, finally given the satisfaction denied to him by Nasir. Breathless, Scarlet gasped that he would tell them what they wanted to know, and Gisburne stepped forward, proud and pleased, to hear where Robin of Sherwood was hiding himself. He was not pleased with the answer. Even if it had been possible for Huntingdon to have hidden in the place that Scarlet described, Gisburne felt sure that he would have noticed the outlaw arriving there. Disgusted, he turned on his heel and marched out of the room. A soldier who was doing his best not to smirk pulled the door shut behind him. 

"Come on." His fury showing in every echo that his boots made on the stone floor, Gisburne strode out of the dungeons. "We'll deal with the third one later. Perhaps you'll be a little better at your job if you've had a chance to rest first." He knew that his words would sting the soldiers, and he hoped that they didn't forget that insult. They would need every bit of their indignation and rage if they were to stand a chance of breaking Little John. 

"You alright Will?" Worried, John raised his voice as soon as he was sure that Gisburne and his solders were gone. The cough that he heard in answer didn't encourage him any, but Will's voice came soon enough. It sounded as strong as ever, if noticeably hoarse and dry. 

"Never been better." There was a clank of chains, as though Scarlet was trying to find a less painful way in which to stand. "Don't take no for an answer, do they." 

"I doubt they'll give up, either." John raised his voice. "Nasir? You still there?" For a second there was silence, then the voice of the Saracen came faintly to him. 

"Yes." There was no emotion in the voice, and the well-schooled Saracen would never allow any pain to display itself. John had expected as much. 

"You alright? Everything still attached where it's supposed to be?" 

"Yes." A pause. "But something is wrong." 

"I'll say. It's a wonder either of you can still talk." John, who had readied himself for similar treatment, felt a little guilty. "I wonder when it'll be my turn." 

"No." Nasir was not the type to shout, and his voice, barely above its normal volume, did not carry well. John had to strain to catch the words. "I meant... something is wrong with Gisburne." 

"Yeah, wrong in the head." Will laughed painfully. "He's always been like that." 

"Not like this. Not so... empty." Nasir was silent for a while, something to which the others were more than used. "He was angry, yes. But he was... different." 

"How do you mean?" Having heard Gisburne's voice rising in pitch and volume as he had screamed his repetitive questions at his prisoners, John was inclined to think that the Norman knight had been much the same as always. Admittedly, though, he hadn't had any first hand experience as yet. Again there was a long silence. 

"I don't..." Not often did Nasir feel quite so incapable of expressing himself in the foreign tongue. "He was not himself. But it was... _familiar_." 

"I suppose he was a little bit stiff, yeah." Now that he thought about it, Will didn't think that Gisburne had been exactly the way he usually was. There had been no real gloating for one thing; none of his usual superiority and snobbishness. He had not attempted to insult his prisoners, and instead had merely launched into the interrogation. Something else struck Scarlet, and he smiled. "You know something? He didn't once call me Wolfshead. It's usually his favourite word." 

"I noticed that." John wasn't sure that it could mean anything, but it was something to think about all the same. "He rarely calls us anything else." 

"He was not himself." Nasir was firm on that point, even if he couldn't explain himself further. John nodded. 

"Not that that really helps us. We should be concentrating on getting out of here. If Abbot Hugo really has made some kind of a deal with the Baron de Belleme, the whole of Nottingham could be in danger." 

"Yeah." Will gave his chains a demonstrative jangle. "But how are we supposed to get out of this lot?" 

"Don't ask me." John leaned back against the wall, and tried to come up with a sensible idea. "Plans are Robin's thing." 

"Great." Will sighed loudly and flopped back against the wall, regretting it when his bruised body was jolted painfully. "Well in that case we're stuffed." 

********** 

Guy of Gisburne wasn't sure that he was supposed to have a master, but he was happy about the situation anyway. He vaguely recalled a time when he had been answerable to the Sheriff of Nottingham, but those days seemed like a dream now. Had there been a time when he had been capable of injecting true clarity into his thoughts? He didn't remember, and knew that he wasn't supposed to care. Whatever had come before, he had a master now, and it was to that master that he went to report. 

"I tried to get the prisoners to talk," he said sulkily, wishing that the baron would look a little more impressed. Just because it had been Hugo who had captured the outlaws didn't mean that he couldn't have a share of the glory. "They wouldn't tell me where Robin Hood is hiding out. 

"Fool. Of course they didn't tell you." The Baron de Belleme was angry with him, but Gisburne couldn't work out why. "And did I tell you to interrogate them? Did I tell you to go anywhere near them?" He sighed and turned away, pacing across the room that had once been the Sheriff's dining hall. It was a study room of sorts now. Books were piled all over the table, and stood in heaps on the floor. Candles burned everywhere, and puddles of wax scarred the table top. A pentagram, the five-pointed figure so beloved of de Belleme, had been drawn crudely on one wall with paint, and a fire burned green in the grate. Any familiarity that the room might have held for Gisburne, who had spent so much of his time there with the Sheriff, was gone now. It was de Rainault's room no longer. 

"I don't understand, sir. I thought you'd be pleased if I was able to find Robin Hood for you." Gisburne tried to remember why he had thought that, but couldn't. What was de Belleme so angry about anyway? The prisoners were still in the dungeons weren't they? And having now kept them there for some hours, Gisburne was approaching a personal record. 

"Perhaps I was a fool to allow you such freedom of thought, Gisburne. The last thing that I need is you making mistakes and letting those men escape. I won't have my plans ruined by your over zealousness." He wandered over to the green fire, waving his hands above it a few times, and muttering incantations that were designed more to worry his audience than to actually accomplish anything. Nonetheless the green flames sparked and spat obligingly. "Just remember what I'm capable of, Gisburne, and see that you avoid any more displays of initiative. Otherwise I'll turn you into the same sort of mindless creature as your dear Sheriff has become these days." Behind him, staring at the flickering green flames, Gisburne's eyes flashed in sulky rage. 

"Now." De Belleme turned, his movements brisk, his anger gone for the moment. "I have my own means of extracting information. Take me to the prisoners." 

"My lord." Gisburne's voice had changed; lost its usual resonance. He wasn't as much of a fool as he was so often inclined to appear, and he had no desire to lose what freedom of thought remained to him. The spell that controlled him did not allow him enough liberty to remember how he had been, or to let him consider escape, but it did allow him some degree of thought. Enough, at least, to be careful now. "They're in the dungeons." 

"Yes Gisburne. They would be, wouldn't they." Taking the lead, de Belleme strolled on out of the hall, heading towards the stairs that lead to the castle's lower, far less pleasant, quarters. The brothers de Rainault were standing by the dungeon entrance, expressions as blank as that of Gisburne. De Belleme had summoned them with a single thought, and they stood in waiting now, the Sheriff holding a bowl of red wine in his hands, and a blood-red cloth folded over one arm. He was waiting with the patience of the bewitched, ready for the next order from his master. De Belleme glared at him. The Sheriff was a necessary evil, required to ensure that the castle guards believed things to be more or less as normal, but the baron would far rather have killed him. Instead he had turned him into the same sort of mindless slave that Little John had once been long ago, which created problems of its own. Sometimes it was better to have attendants like Hugo and Sir Guy, who retained some ability to think. They had to be watched more carefully, but they could at least do some things for themselves. The Sheriff was just an empty shell who needed to be guided at every turn. 

"Master." De Rainault bowed low, getting in the way as he did so. De Belleme nodded at him. 

"We're going to talk to the prisoners. Follow us." 

"Master." The Sheriff bowed low again, almost spilling the wine in the process. Annoyed, de Belleme considered returning some power of rational thought to him, but cast the idea aside. Robert de Rainault had irritated him deeply from the moment they had first met, several years before, and it had been rather an enjoyable experience to wipe his mind and personality away. His older brother retained some degree of independence only because of the possibility that he could be of some use, and even then he was less aware of the world than was Gisburne. Addled or not, though, it was he who took the lead as they entered the dungeons. 

"There are three of them, sir." He spoke as though he were preaching from the pulpit, his voice smooth and precise. It didn't bother him in the slightest that his younger brother had been turned into a vegetable, for he was no longer capable of caring. 

"I know." De Belleme had known that there were three of them before they had been brought to the castle, although his screeching crow had not been able to tell him any more than that. Hugo chatted on, undaunted. 

"The one that they call Little John was your slave once before." He had a faint memory, through the fog that now filled his brain, of seeing John with de Belleme before. He had worn a pentagram painted onto his chest, like the one that Hugo himself now wore, and he had walked like a man in a stupor. De Belleme nodded. 

"A useful man for portents and foretellings. We'll see him first." 

"As it pleases you." Hugo nodded at a guard, a bemused individual who had no idea why his former masters were now walking around as though asleep, and were obeying the orders of a stranger. Since it was not his lot to ask, however, he merely carried on as usual, and led the way to the indicated cell. John looked up at the sound of a key. So now it was his turn. 

"The one called Little John." Hugo made it into an announcement, and John blinked in amazement. The abbot was behaving just as he had done when he had first captured them; like a more stilted version of his normal self. Behind him, carrying a bowl and a piece of cloth, stood his brother. John knew the empty look in his eyes, and his blood ran cold. 

"Not the name I used, but yes, I recognise him." Strolling into the cell, feet clacking on the stone flags, de Belleme looked about as though examining something of great interest. "Very well. We'll begin in here." 

"No." John had thought that he had no memory of his time with the Baron de Belleme. He had believed that he remembered nothing beyond his capture; nothing between that terrible moment and his reawakening beside the river where he had tried to take Robin of Loxley's life. Now he knew that he had been wrong. 

"Silence." Hugo took the cloth from his brother, and spread it on the floor, stroking it almost reverently. De Belleme stood squarely upon it. 

"No. You can't do this to me." Angry, terrified, desperate, John tried to back away. There was, of course, nowhere to back away to. The manacles bit into his wrists, the wall pressed into his back; and he could go nowhere and do nothing. De Belleme dipped his hands into the bowl of wine, and muttered a few words under his breath. John pulled with all his strength upon the chains. Perhaps he would get lucky, and something would break, something would give. He would only need a few seconds. But the chains didn't break, and the wall held firm. De Belleme sprayed wine in his face, and reached out with his fingers to touch John's head. John tried to shake him off, but de Belleme was too fast. With a whisper of strange words that made the green fire back in the dining hall burn with a fiercer glow, he pressed his thumb against John's forehead. Horror-stricken and helpless, the outlaw felt his thoughts beginning to fade away. He struggled and fought to keep his mind intact; concentrated hard on remembering everything. It didn't seem to work. As his mind drited away, clouds of floating smoke rose to fill his vision. 

"Excellent." Reaching into his robes, de Belleme produced a stick of coloured wax. "Excellent." 

"No." It was the only word that John was sure he could remember how to say, and he repeated it until it rang in his ears. De Belleme laughed at him, and clicked his fingers over the stick of wax. A brief flame shot forth, sickly green in colour, melting the end of the wax, and making it drip blood red drops onto the floor. 

"Mine again." De Belleme was clearly enjoying himself. "Just as before." 

"No." John tried to fight him off, but could not prevent the evil sorcerer from pulling open the top of his jerkin. He felt the hot wax pressed against his skin, but didn't notice any pain. All that he felt was the pentagram, as it was drawn upon his chest. He struggled without strength, and fought without co-ordination, and finally felt the last of his self slip away. By the time that de Belleme had finished painting the pentagram, Little John had ceased to be a man at all. 

Nasir had seen the baron go past his cell, and had wondered what the evil man was doing here. It made sense to him that he was within the castle, for it answered one or two of his questions. Hugo and Gisburne had been bewitched by him - he saw that now, recognising the symptoms that he had seen so many times before, in varying degrees, in others who had been bewitched by Simon de Belleme. When he heard John's cry he guessed what was happening to his friend, but knew that there was nothing he could do about it. In the darkness and solitude of his cell he stared into emptiness, and tried to will John the strength to face this. John had been bewitched by de Belleme before, and he had been freed before. There was no reason to suppose that it would not happen again. Despite this optimistic thought, however, Nasir did not feel hopeful. He listened to the sounds of footsteps, and the mutter of low voices; heard the door of Will's cell opening. Scarlet, in typically loud form, asked what was going on, and what the hell had just happened to John - then fell abruptly silent. Nasir didn't need to wonder why. He knew how many sets of footsteps had entered John's cell, and he knew how many had entered Will's, and the numbers did not tally. Will had fallen silent because he had seen Little John, and had begun to realise what had been done to him. 

"You can release him as well." Stepping away from Will, the baron wiped some of the hot red wax from his fingers. The Sheriff and the increasingly confused guard stepped up to do his bidding, and soon Will Scarlet was standing free. He didn't rub his wrists when the manacles were removed, nor stretch his painful arms and shoulders. In its current state such things did not enter his mind. 

"And now, Gisburne, they'll tell us where to find Robin Hood." De Belleme rather enjoyed belittling Gisburne, even though the young knight was not really in a position to care about such things any more. Nonetheless, Gisburne looked faintly mutinous. 

"Yes, my lord." 

"And the third man, Lord de Belleme? Your Saracen?" Hugo was not capable of real curiosity, but he asked the question anyway. The baron cast a disinterested glance at the wall that separated Scarlet's cell from Nasir's, almost as if he could see straight through the solid stone. Perhaps he could. 

"Ah yes. Nasir. Forget about him Abbot, I can't use these spells on him. He's too devout; too faithful to his God. My own gods have no power over him." 

"Then what--" 

"I don't know. I don't care. He's secure enough here isn't he?" Leading the way to the door, de Belleme let his train of faithful followers wander on in his wake. It amused him to have them all traipse after him in such a way; all incapable of clear thought, all incapable of escape. They fought it at first, but they had never been as efficient as this before. Never been as competent. It seemed a shame that they couldn't appreciate that fact for themselves. 

"Yes sir." Hugo nodded his head in conformation, although had he been in full possession of his faculties he might not have been nearly so confident. Nottingham Castle did not, after all, have a great record in keeping the men of Sherwood Forest safely locked up. 

"Then I'll let the guards worry about him. I'm more concerned with the Hooded Man. There are powers stirring in the forest, de Rainault. The many powers of autumn. Robin Hood is the key to those powers, and these two men are the key to Robin Hood." 

"Yes sir." Happy to agree, Hugo trotted along behind his lord and master. "As you say, sir." And hurrying everybody onward out of the dungeons, he didn't spare even the briefest glance for the man watching them pass the door of his cell. Will saw him; registered the presence of a man whose name he knew. Part of him knew that Nasir was a friend of his, but the larger part of his mind was incapable of caring. Turning away, he didn't even notice when the memory of the Saracen left the recesses of his mind completely. Little John didn't think about him at all. 

********** 

Robert of Huntingdon wasn't sure where he was going, but he knew that he was not ready to return to the camp as yet. He didn't know if he was hiding exactly; whether it was his unrest that was keeping him away, or whether he was just trying to avoid being there, with Loxley. Hiding from Loxley. Hiding from... from what? From the possibility of seeing how much his men preferred their first leader? From feeling the powers of Herne draining away from him, as his mysterious spirit father returned his gifts to his first born son? Huntingdon shook his head. He didn't know. Didn't seem to know anything anymore. 

"Why are you here, my son?" Herne's voice startled him. Usually he was aware of his father's presence; knew that he was coming because of the link that they shared. Today his mind was too confused, and he bit his lip in annoyance. It could have been anybody who had come up behind him; a soldier, an outlaw from a rival band - anyone. Then what? 

"You seek peace. Answers." Herne moved closer, and Robin knelt down before him. The mossy ground felt cool beneath his knees, where once it had felt warm. Autumn grew older, and it would be winter soon. 

"You won't give me the answers I seek." He bowed his head, wondering if he had come to Herne, or if Herne had come to him. "All you ever give me is riddles." 

"Riddles are answers, my son. You just have to try a little harder before they become clear to you." Standing above him the forest prophet looked very tall, the huge antler head-dress giving him extra height. "And I have three such answers for you now." 

"Why now and not before?" It had stung that he had been unable to find Herne before. He had been worried that his father had abandoned him. Herne shook his head, in the gentle manner of a faintly despairing parent. 

"You ask for answers to questions that should already be clear. Use your mind, Robin. Think with that instead of with your confusion. Where might I have been?" 

"I don't know." He tried to think, but all that he could think of was Robin - the other Robin. Herne laid a hand on his shoulder. 

"I didn't know he was still alive." For once the answer was sincere and straightforward; a clear phrase, without any riddles. "Even I don't see everything, Robin. There are moments when all things must ebb as well as flow, and sometimes it would pay for you to remember that." There was a pause, during which the sounds of birdsong faded away, and the mists began to creep in. "It was written, Robin. I had to send my son to his death even though I would gladly have done anything to save him. I watched him leave knowing that I would never see him again, and knowing that I was powerless to prevent that." 

"But he didn't die." 

"No, he didn't. But it answers many riddles, to know that it was not so. A lot has happened since that day. Witness the rise of de Belleme, that should have been tempered by the sacrifice Robin made. Remember Owen of Clun, and the powers sought and found by Gulnar? Remember the strength of the magics that you have fought, time and again? There has been unbalance, because a necessary price was not paid." 

"Then Loxley was saved by the dark powers?" It seemed unlikely. He had sensed nothing dark touching the other man, not matter how much, he suspected, he had wanted to sense it. Again there was a silence, and the mists swirled in closer. 

"I don't think so. The forest is full of spirits, Robin i' the Hood, and their powers are with you just as are mine. Some call them the ghosts of Sherwood, and that isn't too far from the truth. Ancient spirits, part of something as old as the metal that was once worked into the sword you carry beside you. I can't always see them, or know what they are doing, but there is nothing that happens within Sherwood, or to the people of Sherwood, that escapes them. They care nothing for balance, or for the powers of Fate and Life that move in wider circles. They care only for Sherwood." 

"Then I've done Loxley an injustice." Feeling the deeply ingrained sense of honour stir within him, Huntingdon hung his head. "I thought--" 

"What you thought does not matter. I have discovered the truth, my son. Now it remains to discover the conclusion. I said that I had three answers for you." 

"Three riddles." Robin nodded. "What are they?" 

"Words of counsel I would hope. Perhaps a way to balance the growing chaos. And so to your first answer, Robin. Of six, you may choose only one." 

"One what?" He knew that he wouldn't get an answer to that, but reflex made him ask it anyway. Herne smiled. 

"One of the six," he said simply, as though that made everything clear. Robin smiled back. 

"And the second answer?" 

"Ah yes. The second answer. Trust one who trusts you, even if neither truly trusts the other." 

"Even if neither truly trusts the other." Whispering the words to himself, trying to be sure of remembering them, Robin frowned at that one. Why would he trust someone that he couldn't trust? But he had long ago ceased to look for immediate understanding, and nodded his head in acceptance of the second answer. "And the third?" 

"The third." Herne reached out with gentle fingers, taking Robin's chin so that the young man was looking up at him. "The third answer is that one must die. One in whom the powers of light and darkness are strong. The Fates will accept no lesser sacrifice. And for now, that is all that I can tell you." 

"All?" It didn't seem like much, but then when was it ever? Prophecies were not meant to be straightforward. Releasing him and stepping back, Herne nodded his proud head. 

"All. Go now, you have much to do." 

"Yes. Yes, I think I do." He rose to his feet, still thinking hard. "And thankyou. I thought--" 

"You thought that a father might turn his back on one son, just because another son had come to him again. Never ask a father to choose between his sons, Robin. Never expect him to know how such a choice can be made." 

"Even when he knows that one of them has to be lost?" It was a dangerous question and he knew it, but it had to be asked. Herne's eyes flashed. 

"You ask me for prophecies that I cannot make. Go, Robin." 

"I'm going." He turned away, wondering about that look on the face of the Hunter. Who else but the sons of Herne were strong with the powers of light and darkness? Who else but one of his sons could be a worthy sacrifice? He felt cold, though not with the fear of death itself. More of the inevitability of it; the certainty that, if he was the one that was destined to die in order to end this, nothing that he did would change that fate. Searching, perhaps, for one last answer, he turned back to look towards Herne - but it was already too late. The forest god had gone. 

"And now what?" He asked it to the trees, who were always his friends and companions nowadays. He asked it to the sky that hung above him, and to the birds that were beginning to sing again. None of them could answer him, but he was beginning to answer himself. _Of the six you may choose only one_. That could mean only one thing, for there was only one six in his life, and that was the number of his companions. But which one of them could he choose? There was no decision to make, and he knew it. If there had to be only one, who else but the one who meant everything to him? And without another thought, even to consider Loxley, he set off for Kirklees Abbey. 

********** 

They made slow progress along the paths that led away from Nottingham. De Belleme did not like to ride fast, preferring instead a sedate pace that allowed everybody he passed to see him. Gisburne was just behind, his usual impatience destroyed by the spell on his mind, and Hugo de Rainault was beside him. Neither man spoke, for neither man thought of speaking. Behind them, no longer capable of any kind of thought at all, was the Sheriff of Nottingham. An empty cask, devoid of even the most basic signs of independence, he was less than the animal on which he rode. The horse at least could have changed direction, or stopped if it chose. 

The outlaws were in no better a state. Taking the lead, striding ahead of de Belleme's horse as once he had done before, was Little John. He carried a quarter-staff again, and his sword was once more in his belt. His head was as high as ever it had been when he had walked alongside Robin. But his eyes were empty, and his brain was dulled, and he walked as a man in a dream. He was heading towards the camp within Sherwood, but he wasn't aware of it. He wasn't aware of anything. 

At the back of the party, quiver full of arrows returned to his back, long bow gripped in his strong hands, Will was aware of even less. His step was slow; slower even than the pace set by the others, for Gisburne's guards had done a good deal of damage earlier, and his body was not up to the long walk. Unable to think of such things, able only to follow on behind his new lord and master, Will was not conscious of the pain. He didn't know that his chest was screaming at him to stop, and that his legs were weakening with each stride. He didn't know anything, save the steady rhythm of the walking, and the calm certainty that he had to carry on. Gradually though, forced by the weaknesses of humanity that even Simon de Belleme could not control, his pace slowed still further. Gisburne cast a quick glance over his shoulder. 

"Scarlet is falling behind." He didn't go back to spur the man on, for in the presence of de Belleme he could do little without the other's say so, but he felt some impatience. That much human feeling was still granted to him. 

"I'm not surprised." De Belleme did not bother turning to look. "After you had finished with him, Gisburne, it's a wonder he managed to make it this far." 

"Then you're not worried, my lord?" Gisburne was, or thought he was. He frowned. Maybe he wasn't. After all, he told himself, it wasn't as though he had any reason to fear Will Scarlet. His old concerns had left him now, along with his old responsibilities. The idea of Wolfsheads and Robin i' the Hood was something that lay behind a barrier that de Belleme's sorcery had built in his mind. 

"Of course I'm not worried. He doesn't have a free thought in his head, Gisburne, what's he going to do? Leave him, I only need the one of them. Perhaps he'll watch our rear." 

"You're expecting trouble, my lord?" 

"I'm expecting all kinds of things. The question is which of those things might actually be a threat? Scarlet will follow on, given time. I can control him whether he's under my fist or on the other side of Sherwood, have no fear of that. You just think about following his companion here, and finding me Robin of Sherwood." 

"My lord." And so Will Scarlet passed out of Gisburne's mind, and out of the parade of de Belleme's followers, though not out of the sorcerer's control. Eyes focused upon nothing, he wandered alone along the dusty road. One man, unseen and unexpected, following in his master's shadow. A man whose only thought was to kill. 

********** 

Robin and Much had travelled quickly at first, but as time went by their pace soon slowed. Robin was nervous; the sort of nervousness that he had never felt before. This wasn't like leading his men against an unknown foe, or facing new difficulties or challenges. This was something else. 

"What if she doesn't want to see me?" he asked. Much frowned. 

"Why wouldn't she? She loves you Robin. She always did." 

"Yes, but she loved Huntingdon as well." Robin's intuition had always been strong, and there were some things that had been obvious to him. Huntingdon's eyes, at the mention of Marion's name. The thoughts that had been troubling Tuck. It made sense to him. Huntingdon was handsome, and his heart was obviously in the right place. He was a part of Herne's vision, which had always been dear to Marion. He was probably closer to her age than was Robin, unless he was younger even than he looked. Robin knew that he would have been Huntingdon's friend, had they been led to meet under different circumstances. It stood to reason that Marion would like him too. 

"Did she?" Much sounded vague, and Robin couldn't tell if he was being deliberately so, or if he genuinely hadn't noticed any attraction between the pair. He smiled. 

"Much, don't try to spare my feelings. It's alright, you know. I've been gone a long time, and... well living our... your... lifestyle is bound to bring people together. You know what it's like. Comradeship in the face of danger. I didn't expect her to spend the rest of her life alone." 

"I think she did." Much slowed to a halt. "She'll see you Robin. She and Robin... Huntingdon... were close. We all saw it. That's all that there was though. She was grieving, and then she left us. I don't know why, but I think it was something to do with something that Herne said. She thought Robin was going to die, so she left." 

"Poor Marion." His heart heavy, Robin stared onwards through the trees. It must have been terrible for her, to have lost one lover, and then to have faced losing another just as she had begun to allow herself to have feelings for him at last. His fault, for leaving her in the first place. If it hadn't been for his destiny... But then if it hadn't been for his destiny he would never have met Marion in the first place, and certainly wouldn't have spent so wonderful a year in her company, serving Herne by her side. 

"We should get on, Robin." Much had quickened his step, his determined figure striding on ahead. Loxley smiled. Tuck had been right; the boy had become a man, in some ways at least. 

"You'll have to get her. If I knock at the gates she'll... well knowing our luck she'll probably faint right away there on the steps, and we'll never get to speak with her. She'll be whisked off to bed, and we'll be excommunicated by the Mother Superior." 

"Exc- exco--" Much frowned. "Can nuns do that?" 

"I don't think so, no." 

"Oh." He nodded, clearly not entirely sure of Robin's meaning. "I see." 

They walked on for some time, neither of them speaking. The forest felt warm despite the coldness in the air, and the developing autumn didn't seem to have done anything to diminish the amount of animal life around them. Birds sang from the branches of the trees, and a deer stalked fearlessly across the path in front of them. Robin brought Much to a halt to watch it, certain that it was an omen. It was Herne's symbol after all. 

"What does it mean, Robin?" Much sounded troubled. Omens, in his experience, were rarely good. 

"I think it means that we're doing the right thing. That we have Herne's blessing." Robin smiled in satisfaction. "I was worried that I might be doing this for selfish reasons. That I should have been looking for the baron instead." Much shivered. 

"The baron. Why does he keep coming back, Robin? You killed him didn't you? You said you did, when you went into his castle to rescue Marion." 

"Yes, I did. At least I thought I did. Maybe he wasn't dead, or maybe his magic was stronger than we thought." Robin had played a large, if unwilling, part in de Belleme's resurrection, and he still wasn't entirely clear on what had happened. Herne had been unable to tell him much. 

"But Nasir said he was dead. He went to check, he said, before he came after us. Before he came to join us. And Nasir should know dead people when he sees them shouldn't he?" 

"Yes." Robin smiled. Yes, Nasir should certainly know death. "De Belleme has strong powers I suppose. Strong enough to bring him back. But we'll find a way to stop him." 

"Well we have to, don't we." Much was slowing his step. "The forest ends just ahead Robin. Do you want me to check there's nobody watching?" 

"No. No, we're not splitting up now." Robin walked forward, coming to the edge of the trees and peering out beyond. He did not often have cause to come near to Kirklees Abbey, and he couldn't help remembering how he had once brought Marion here himself, at her request, before she had joined the outlaws. They had joked together as they had travelled, and he had tried to convince her to stay behind in the forest. She had tried to play the part of a proper lady, but had been unable to keep her defences from crumbling. Soon enough they had crumbled forever. 

"It looks safe enough." Sure enough there was nobody in sight, not that there would have been even if there had been a hundred people lying in wait. Robin broke cover, striding out of his world and into the clear daylight. His nervousness had increased to a relentless churning in his heart, but he knew that he had to act now, or risk not acting at all. 

"I'll call her out then, Robin, and I'll bring to you." Much frowned. "What do I tell her?" 

"Anything you like." Robin had no idea what the boy should say. The truth was something that she wouldn't believe, no doubt even after she had seen it with her own eyes. "Maybe you should just tell her that you have to talk to her. But don't scare her. I don't want her thinking that Huntingdon is in danger, and risk breaking her heart even more than it's been broken already." 

"I'll smile a lot." Much beamed as he said it, and Robin had to smile in return. Much was always smiling a lot, and at times it could be almost impossible not to be touched by his spirit. 

"I'll hide around the corner." He tried not to imagine what would happen. Would she run into his arms, or scream and run away? Would she come with him, or - more likely - tell him that she couldn't face it? If she had come to Kirklees because she couldn't stand the thought of one day losing Huntingdon, then would she leave it now? or ever? 

"It'll be nice to have Marion back." Unaware of Robin's tortures, Much chatted on. "I've missed her. It's been like when we all split up, after you left. I missed everybody then. We didn't know where anybody was, Little John and me. Will and Nasir had disappeared, and Marion had gone off to be with her father. It was horrible." 

"We're back together again now Much. All of us." 

"Yeah." Much turned to look at him, and his innocent eyes carried a degree of wisdom and experience that was not usually present there. "But for how long, Robin? Are we going to lose you again? You were supposed to die, and we all know that." He looked away, casting his eyes downward. "If you die, it'll kill Marion I reckon. Break us all up it would. More than before even. Promise you won't leave us again." 

"I can't do that, Much." He laid a hand on the boy's shoulder, and thought about Herne's words. His death seemed inescapable, if he was to defeat Simon de Belleme and bring Herne's much vaunted 'balance' back to Sherwood. Nature needed balance. Life needed balance. Without it Sherwood itself risked a terrible end. 

"I don't want to lose you again, Robin." Much didn't look at him as he spoke, and Robin, at first, could not look at him either. There was only one person in all of the world that he was closer to than Much, and that was the result of a bond deeper than any other. He smiled, and put a hand on the boy's shoulder. 

"If I have to die, Much, it'll be for all the right reasons, just like it was the last time. There's no better way to die than that. It's nothing to grieve for." 

"Yes it is. Death's always for grieving. You always missed your father, and what better death could he have had than trying to keep the Silver Arrow safe? If it was Marion that had to die to sort this out, you'd grieve for her wouldn't you?" 

"Marion?" If Marion should die his world would end. There would be no anything. No light, no hope, no future. He closed his eyes briefly. "Of course I would. But this is different Much, and you must never forget that. Wherever I've been these past months, wherever my destiny leads me to go, I am the son of Herne. I would never want to change that." 

"I know, Robin." The boy's heart was clearly heavy, but his smile was as it always was. "We're nearly there. You'd better get out of sight." 

"Yes, I think I'd better." He drew into the shadows of the wall of Kirklees, and thought about everything that he had just said. Much wasn't the only one that would grieve his death - he would grieve it himself, if the dead were capable of such things. Although he had been unaware of the passage of time when he had been away, he was aware of it now. Of the long months when he had been away from Marion, of the sharp pain that her absence had caused. He needed her, the way he had always needed her, from the moment he had blundered into her bed chamber in Nottingham Castle. His heart sung with the thought that he was about to see her again, but at the same time it was heavy with the knowledge that he would soon have to leave her forever. If only there was some way that he could escape that; that he could stay with her, and be with her as things had used to be. They were still so young, and there should have been such things ahead... He bit his lip and forced his mind into silence. Why think of like that? It did no good. Instead he pulled back further into the shadows, closing his eyes and concentrating on thoughts of Much. He would be knocking at the gates now, talking to the nun who waited there for such eventualities, asking to speak to the Lady Marion. The nun would be walking away, heading off into the retreat to fetch the girl, her sedate pace taking time, drawing out Robin's anguish, making him mad with the length of the waiting... 

"Much?" Marion's voice. It came like a bolt from the blue; like a shot straight through Robin's heart. He felt the tears welling up, hot and unexpected, and dashed them away. "What is it? Is there anything wrong?" 

"No." Robin could hear the triumphant grin in the boy's voice, and had to smile. "Nothing's wrong. I just had to come and see you. Had to show you something." 

"What?" Marion was clearly smiling at the boy, and Robin could see her face in his mind, that smile lighting up her eyes. "What is it?" 

"You've got to come with me." Much's excitement was that of a child, as though he was having to keep from bounding up and down. "You've got to see something. You'll like it. Honest. Come on Marion." 

"Much..." She sounded faintly exasperated. "I'm not leaving the abbey. Did Robin send you?" 

"No..." His voice was bright with excitable cunning. "Not exactly. Not like you mean, anyway. Come on Marion. You've got to see. I've brought you something." 

"Oh Much." She was giving in, and Robin could hear it in her voice. He held his breath. So close now... She was walking towards him, and he could hear her soft steps on the grass. He couldn't breathe now; was certain that his heart had ceased to beat. Everything was still and hot and cold and confused, and he wasn't sure that he would be able to speak when the time came. Didn't think he would even be able to move. 

And then she was there, and Much was grinning, and she was staring at them both with no expression on her face at all. Robin gaped at her, not knowing what to say, despite the practice sentences he had mulled over in his mind on the way here. He was helpless. Incapable of doing anything save stare at her. Stare and remember... 

"Robin." Her voice was very small. Shaky. Much nodded. 

"That's right. Told you you'd like it, didn't I? It's not magic Marion. It's real. He's really here. Not dead, see?" 

"I--" She rubbed her forehead, as though preparing to swoon, but as always she stood firm. "I--" 

"Don't try to speak." Finding his voice at last, Robin managed a step towards her. "There are so many things to explain. I know what you must be thinking..." 

"No." She shook her head, staring at him all the while. "You can't begin to imagine. Nobody could imagine. And..." Her shoulders gave a quiver, and he saw tears race through her eyes like a curtain of ancient grief. "Oh Robin. There's nothing to say. Nothing at all." And with a sound that might have been a cry of delight or just the sound of her choking back the tears, she ran to him, and threw herself into his arms. 

********** 

Nasir had made up his mind to escape. 

It was dark in the cell, and cold, and he was uncomfortable with his hands chained above his head - but he hadn't given a thought to any of those things for some time. Little John and Will had been his first consideration, but they were gone now, and there was nothing that he could do to get them back whilst he was locked up in Nottingham Castle. 

And so he decided that it was time to leave. 

It took a great deal of manoeuvring to begin with. Inside his left sleeve, strapped to his arm just above the wrist, was a dagger; a small but sharp weapon with a broad, strong blade. It was not in the easiest of places to reach, but experience had taught him that it was less likely to be found there; and, sure enough, it had not. He was angry with himself for not trying to use it earlier, although he knew it would have done no good. Certainly there would have been nothing he could have done to save his friends when there had still been so many people around; guards moving to-and-fro, people always looking through the window in the door. Only now, when there was no danger of interruption, was the time right. 

The chain connecting his wrists was not very long, but it was almost long enough to allow him to reach the knife. His fingertips brushed the hilt, at its very tip, refusing to give him any chance of purchase. He struggled on, stretching as much as he could, putting every inch of his strength into reaching out for the knife. The idea of failure was not one that he was familiar with. Around him the cell grew darker as the already limited light began to fade. Nobody came, so there was no need to stop. He merely struggled on. 

He had no idea how long it was before his fingers caught hold of something. He had been fighting to reach for what seemed like most of the day, but at last, when he could no longer see as far as the door, his manoeuvring and struggling paid off. With a mighty effort that made his wrists feel as though they were about to break, he managed to loosen the knife. It almost fell, but his fingers caught the hilt just in time, and with a flick of one much abused wrist he managed to pull it free from its sheath, and from his sleeve. Now all that he had to do was to decide how he was going to use it. 

He tried the left cuff first; one of the heavy iron manacles that were snapped around his wrists. He tried attacking the hinge and the clasp with the point of his knife, but succeeded in doing nothing more constructive than slipping and cutting himself. Changing tactics, he tried to push himself up the wall slightly, so as to lessen the tension on the chain, and with unyielding, dogged determination, began work on the right cuff instead. Stone dust showered down where the chains grazed the wall, and his wrists sang out their protests, but pain meant nothing to Nasir. He felt it, accepted it, and then ignored it. It didn't work especially well, but it served to keep him from slowing. 

Around him the cell darkened further. He knew that, if it was not night yet, then soon it would be. How long was it since Will and John had left? It had been well past noon when they had been taken, but there had still been time for them to travel some considerable distance. He didn't believe that they were still in Nottingham Castle. Gisburne had wanted to know where Robin was, and that pointed clearly to de Belleme's main reason for bewitching the two prisoners. He had wanted that question answered, and had decided to get his answer in the best and most effective way available to him. Now, without doubt, de Belleme had gone to Sherwood. It didn't take much to work that out, just as it did not take much thought to realise that John and Will would lead him straight to the outlaws' camp. Nasir doubted that he had any chance of being in time to help Robin, but he knew that he had to do something. 

_Robin_. Both Robins, either Robin... He wondered if they had worked anything out yet; discovered where the other one had come from, and how. Nasir's instincts had failed him there, and gave him no help in deciding whether Loxley was to be trusted or not. De Belleme's presence suggested foul play, but it was hard to imagine what he hoped to gain from such a ploy. Nasir had once known the baron well, and had learned to anticipate his thoughts and actions, and he felt sure that Loxley's return was nothing to do with him. There was so much to be understood... so much to sort out... 

With a click that sounded abnormally loud in the still, silent room, the cuff at last fell open. The chain rattled loudly as it slid through the ring holding it up, and Nasir's arms fell heavily to his sides. He didn't allow himself to breathe a sigh of relief, and like Will before him he made no concession to the discomfort or pain - albeit for different reasons. Instead he crossed immediately to the door. There was no way to get at the lock from this side, and the tiny window would not have been big enough to reach through even if had not been barred. He considered banging or shouting, but knew that that would accomplish nothing. More to the point, it wasn't his way. With nothing else suggesting itself, and knowing that somebody was bound to come to him sometime, he folded his arms and leant against the wall. He would stand here, in the silence and the darkness, in the damp and the freezing cold, and he would wait. 

Wait, in wretched helplessness, whilst Simon de Belleme laid waste to his friends. 

********** 

Robin had run all the way to Kirklees Abbey, and didn't stop until he reached the edge of the trees. Cautious now, aware that there was much that was going on in the county that might be dangerous to him, he peered out of the forest, looking towards the crumbling old wall that surrounded the ancient retreat. He could see figures moving there, near to the gate, and recognised the flash of red hair that could only mean Marion. His heart gave a jolt at the sight of her, and he began to move forward - then he saw her, quite suddenly, run into the arms of one of the other people present. He froze. He recognised the man now; could see who it was from his long brown hair, and the easy pride and grace of his standing. Robin of Loxley, come at last to reclaim his queen. Slowly, without him being aware of it, Huntingdon's shoulders slumped. Marion, it seemed, had no choice to make. 

"Marion..." He watched her for a moment, seeing her radiant joy even at such a distance. He could imagine the smile on her face, and the sound of her voice as she welcomed her visitor. He remembered how close, for so brief a time, he had come to having her love him in almost that way. It was a memory, and a fantasy, that he allowed himself to think about for one brief moment, before he put it from his mind forever. Then without another glance their way, he turned around and headed back into the forest. 

********** 

The camp never felt lonely, even when everybody else had gone. Tuck enjoyed the silence, listening to the bird song and the wind in the trees, watching the coloured leaves spiralling gently to earth. Before long there would be none left, and then winter would be upon them. It was hard, spending winter in the forest, but he was a lot more tough these days. It made him smile to remember his first winter, when he had almost been ready to abandon the forest and head somewhere warmer. These days he found that the changing of the seasons held no worries for him, even if he did look forward to the eventual return of summer. 

Throwing another log on the fire, Tuck wondered about the others. He had searched for Huntingdon without luck, and was worried about the young man's continued absence. He was worried, too, about John and the others, for there was no telling what might have become of them since their capture, and there seemed to be so little that he could do for them on his own. He knew that things were happening, in the forest and beyond; things that they would have to stop. He knew also that it was likely that all the gang would be needed to achieve victory. They were in danger, and he could see no quick solution; but danger at least was nothing new. With two Robins to fight Herne's battles, surely they could not lose, no matter what they were up against? 

The day was growing older, although it had not yet begun to grow dark. Tuck listened out for Huntingdon, and wondered when he would return; whether Loxley would come back to the camp or go straight to face de Belleme. He should be keeping watch, he supposed, and then he would know if either of them was coming; but he had never been very good at climbing trees, and was not the greatest of watchmen. There was little likelihood of anybody coming to the camp, and nobody outside their group, save Edward of Wickham, knew where it was. He felt safe enough. 

De Belleme had ordered his companions to dismount as they approached the camp. Gisburne was muttering about the lack of men that they had brought with them, but the baron was confident that, with Little John on their side, not to mention the benefit of surprise, they would be more than able to subdue Robin Hood. He only knew of one, for John was in no state to volunteer any information that was not directly requested, and the number of Robin Hoods in the vicinity was not a question that had occurred to either the baron or his allies. They were expecting no more than four people in the camp - and it came as something of a disappointment to find only one. 

"John!" Tuck rose to his feet as soon as his friend entered the clearing. He had heard the approach of somebody, and had been on the verge of hiding himself away. Little John strode towards him. 

"Robin," he muttered, in what was supposed to be an inquiry about their leader's whereabouts. Tuck frowned. 

"He's not here. What are you doing back, John? Where are Will and Nasir? I thought that you'd been--" 

"Robin." It sounded more like a threat this time. Tuck's frown deepened. 

"He went off somewhere. Herne's business I shouldn't wonder, and when did he ever share that with us? Sit down now. Have some ale. Tell me what's been happening." 

"Robin." It was a voice now empty of all thought or feeling. Tuck looked up into empty, lifeless eyes, and felt his stomach churn. 

"John?" He knew that something was wrong now, but he didn't know what he could do about it. The big man towered above him, eyes wide and unnaturally bright, lips moving in soundless repetition of his earlier question. "Listen, we have to--" But he got no further. As de Belleme whispered an order from his vantage point some distance away, John raised his heavy quarter-staff and knocked Tuck down. The friar fell without a sound, and lay still. 

"So there's nobody here." Unimpressed, Gisburne marched around the clearing, peering at bushes and trees as though expecting Robin Hood to leap out of them. "Where are they all?" 

"We've accounted for four, and rumour has it that Marion has left them." Hugo de Rainault stared around at the camp, incapable of caring about the whereabouts of any of the gang. "That only leaves Huntingdon and the half-wit." 

"And I want Huntingdon. Herne's Son is important to me." Clenching and unclenching his fists, de Belleme stared down at Tuck. From the expression on his face it was clear that he was thinking about doing something unpleasant to the friar, but in the end he turned away and left the unconscious man alone. 

"Perhaps if we waited here?" suggested Gisburne. De Belleme shook his head. 

"No. No, Hood knows by now that I'm back, and he'll be on the look out. He may not know me the way Loxley did, but Herne will guide him, and he'll not come back here yet. We've wasted enough time. I have better things for all of us to be doing than traipsing around Sherwood Forest looking for a man we've no chance of finding." He crouched down beside Tuck, and with barely an effort hauled the friar into a sitting position, resting him against the wooden chest that was the repository for the band's stolen goods. "With the Lord of the Hunt to guide him, he'll soon find me. In the meantime I think we'll leave him a message." 

"A message?" Anticipating what sort of message it would be, Gisburne drew his sword. De Belleme glared at him. 

"I really am going to have to review my decision to let you carry on thinking, aren't I Gisburne. Now get out of the way." 

"My lord." Stung by the words, even though de Belleme's spells were supposed to make such feelings impossible, the young knight backed off, watching with faintly mutinous eyes as the baron pulled a jar from inside his black robes. There was a red paste within the jar, that looked like blood mixed with sand. De Belleme dipped his fingers into the stuff, and with a dexterity that added a real sense of artistic talent to his actions, he painted a series of symbols on Tuck's broad forehead. Gisburne frowned. 

"What's that?" His curiosity was returning, and it surprised him to realise that he had been without it for some while. De Belleme stood up. 

"A message. Hood will understand it, if Herne's powers are as strong with him as they should be. Now come on. We have a long way to travel, and I want to be home before nightfall." 

"Nottingham's not that far away. We'll manage it easily." Gisburne turned to head back to the horses, but de Belleme shook his head. 

"We're not going back to Nottingham. We're going to my castle." 

"Castle Belleme isn't yours anymore. It was appropriated by King John, and sold off to the highest bidder." Once upon a time Hugo had remembered the auction without enjoyment, for he and his brother had hoped to reap the rewards of the sale themselves. John's actions had been out of the blue, and an unpleasant shock for both de Rainaults. Now Hugo didn't even remember that money was something he liked to collect. 

"We're not going to Castle Belleme." Standing up, the baron stared down at his handiwork without evidence of satisfaction. "Fetch the horses, Gisburne." 

"My lord." Gisburne wasn't sure why he turned so smartly to do the baron's bidding, but he went anyway. Something was different, and he knew it. Something about the way that his thoughts were working. He was remembering... But the Baron de Belleme expected his obedience, and he knew that it would be dangerous to fail him. Swallowing his pride, and doing his best to prevent his returning emotions from showing on his face, he went quickly to do the baron's bidding. Around and above him the soothing green light of Sherwood Forest shone down, bathing his mind and calming his confusion, and he felt everything begin to grow clear. 

The Baron de Belleme was not his lord. At the moment he could not quite remember who was, but he knew that the memory would return. All that he knew right now was that he was not supposed to be here; and if he could be sure that the baron would not guess he had recovered the freedom of his thoughts, he would do his best to escape. Guy of Gisburne might be a cruel man by most standards, but he was not a devil worshipper; and neither was he a coward. He knew that the baron had to be stopped - and he had every intention of taking a hand in doing just that. 

********** 

It was well into the night before somebody came. Nasir had not lost hope, and had not moved from the position he had taken up by the door, but he allowed himself a moment of something like excitement when he heard the prowling footsteps. Silent as a ghost he waited, listening as the patrolling guard checked up on the other prisoners in the dungeon. There was no sound of speech, further proof beyond that of the solitary footsteps that this guard was alone. Nasir listened to the steps coming closer, and knew that at any second the hapless denizen of Nottingham Castle would look through the window of his cell, and see that he was gone. 

It happened just as he had envisaged it, as he had waited there alone in the darkness. A muted oath, one of a number that still remained beyond his power to translate; a rattling of keys on a ring of iron; then the sound of the lock being opened. Nasir tensed, the knife gripped in readiness in his hand. The door began to open, and a second later a mailed fist held up a candle - a light by which to see; a light by which to spot his prisoner; and an unfailing guide for Nasir's patient dagger. Soundless and swift, he stabbed upwards and outwards, and heard and felt the impact. The guard had no time to speak, and the noise of air escaping his lungs was the only farewell he had for the world. Nasir caught his falling body and dragged him into the cell, then took his sword, kicked out the fallen candle, and pulled the cell door shut. He locked it, hung the keys on a convenient hook, and listened carefully. There was no sound, save that of one or two other prisoners shifting fitfully in their cells. Them he ignored; some of them might well deserve freedom, but he had no time for them now. Turning his back on the whole sorry place, he ran for the steps. With luck he would find his own weapons on the way out; if not then he at least had his captured sword. There was still a long way yet to go before freedom was his. 

********** 

Loxley was still torn about whether or not to return to the camp before heading off after de Belleme, but Marion had insisted on going back for a weapon of some sort. He had tried arguing with her, but she had made her feelings very plain. This was one battle that she was not going to let him fight alone, and he knew that he had no right to prevent her from taking part. They had been without each other for too long, and if she wanted to go with him to face the baron it was only right to allow her - especially once he had told her of the prophecy of Gildas - so with Much following on behind them, giving them a sort of privacy, he led the way back to the camp. Marion held his hand all the way, leaning on him with the air of one who would never let go. She had not asked him once how he came to be here; how he had survived, or perhaps returned from death. She had not doubted that he was who he said he was, and he had seen from the look in her eyes that her trust in him was absolute. It made his heart sing, and he knew that he was blessed indeed. If he truly was to lose all of this; if the price of defeating Simon de Belleme was inescapably to be his death; he felt deep inside that perhaps he would not mind so much after all. How could he object to death when it came after a moment as perfect as this one? 

The camp was quiet when they arrived. Robin was surprised, and a little concerned to see no sign of anyone, but concluded that Tuck and Huntingdon were probably trying to free the others from Nottingham. 

"Tuck?" He headed towards the fire, feeling a little chilled now that the afternoon was drawing to its close. There was no answer. "Hello?" 

"Robin!" Much's voice was filled with shock, and Loxley turned instantly. He saw the boy running towards a figure lying slumped against a chest, and saw at once what had happened. Somebody had been here. He could feel them now; sense their earlier presence; see their footsteps in the earth. Had Nasir been there he could have told Robin that there had been five of them, all men, one of whom had been without any certainty or clarity to his movements. As it was he knew only that somebody had been here; somebody who had left Tuck unconscious on the ground. 

"What are these markings?" Marion touched the red stuff on Tuck's forehead, and found that it had dried. Robin scanned the symbols. They were those of a language that he had never learnt, but which he had understood ever since the day he had been greeted for the first time by Herne. 

"It's a message." He reached out for a water-skin, gently washing the markings away. Almost immediately Tuck began to stir. 

"A message?" Marion poured a little wine into a mug, holding it out for the recovering friar to drink. "What did it say?" 

"It said..." Robin hesitated, then sighed and looked away. He couldn't lie. Once he might have refused to translate the message, but now he knew that he could not keep the truth from any of his friends. They had a right to know. "It said _By the blood of Herne's Son, night shall fall_. It sounds like one of Herne's riddles." 

"Not _Herne's_ riddles." Marion shivered. "He wouldn't say something like that." 

"What does it mean?" piped up Much. Robin glanced over at him, gratified to see the greater courage that now shone in the boy's eyes. Times had, indeed, changed greatly. 

"It means that the baron has a plan that calls for my blood - or more likely Huntingdon's. I doubt that he knows I'm back, so it'll be the other Robin he's really looking for." 

"We have to warn him!" Horrified, Marion stood up straight. "Where is he?" 

"I don't know. I think he went to find Herne. He was very confused. We both were." Robin remembered how awkward they had been, something that had been as much his fault as it had been that of the younger man. "I think he was worried, like I was, that Herne might only want one of us. That he might abandon the other one." 

"Poor Robin." She smiled sadly. "What do we do?" 

"About Huntingdon? What can we do? It's a big forest, and without Nasir to help us track him I don't think we'd find him quickly. We need to find the baron." 

"The Baron de Belleme..." Rubbing his head, Tuck moaned the words out. "He was here... I heard him... like in a dream..." 

"Yes, we know. Take it slowly Tuck." Robin tried to calm the friar, but the other man would not be calmed. 

"He was here with the Sheriff, and Abbot Hugo... and Gisburne. They weren't themselves. But Little John..." 

"John?" Robin frowned, "What do you mean?" 

"He was here. He was with them. His eyes, Robin... He wasn't himself. Not at all. There was a five-pointed star, painted on his chest. He hit me..." He groaned, and drank the rest of the wine that Marion had poured for him. "I feel terrible." 

"You look it." Robin smiled gently at him, and patted him on the shoulder. "So the baron has John under his spell again. Poor John." 

"We'll free him." There was a hard, determined light in Marion's eyes. Robin nodded. 

"Yes, we will. But we have to find him first. I saw a castle, or... a manor house... Huge and crumbling." 

"Then we'd better find it, hadn't we." She smiled at him. "I trust your instincts, Robin. When you see things, they're real. Think about what you saw, and we'll know where to look." 

"Tuck should stay here. He needs to rest." Robin knew that it was impossible even as he said it. They couldn't leave one of their number behind. The friar struggled to his feet. 

"I shall be fine." He wobbled, but managed to stand firm. "A proper state we're in, aren't we. If the baron has John, he must have Will and Nasir as well. We're on our own." 

"Yes, we are." Robin couldn't help remembering another time when the other three had been prisoners - when he and Much and Marion had had to stand alone, with Tuck barely able to keep up. The parallel was not one that he liked, for it had not ended well the first time; and he could see his thoughts mirrored in the expression on Marion's face. 

"There's so much to do, Robin." She took his hands, staring at him with troubled eyes. "And so few of us." 

"Would you rather we did nothing? Run away from it all and leave Sherwood to its fate?" He pulled her into a hug, and felt a shiver run through her. 

"No, of course not. I almost wish that we could, but... I'd never suggest that. Even if you weren't Herne's Son, we couldn't just run away." 

"Then there's only one choice, isn't there." He held her at arm's length. "We have to face the baron, and we have to defeat him." 

"And we have to survive. All of us." She was holding his hands so tightly that it hurt. He wished that he could give her a proper answer. 

"We'll do what we have to do Marion. Whatever it takes. It's what we've always done." 

"I know." She smiled at him, and nodded her head. "I know. So we'd better get underway." 

"Yes." He pointed at the tracks in the earth. "We may be able to follow these for a while; give us a start in the right direction. Are you up to it Tuck?" 

"Of course I am." Picking up his quarter-staff, the friar leant heavily on it. "Just lead on, Robin. We'll follow. Wherever it takes us." 

"Then let's get going." Robin shouldered his bow, and gave his troops a smile that they had all believed they would never see again. "I have a feeling we've got a long walk ahead." 

"Should we leave a message? For the other Robin I mean?" Much was looking around as though for something on which to write. Loxley hesitated, then shook his head. 

"We won't need to. Herne will tell him what he needs to know." 

"Are you sure?" Marion was evidently worried about the forest god's second son, and Loxley found that he didn't mind that at all. He smiled at her. 

"I'm sure. He's my brother, Marion. Herne has joined us together. By now he'll know more or less everything that I do, and I doubt he'll be coming back here until this is over. I wouldn't, if I was him." 

"Then perhaps we'll meet him along the way." She slung a quiver full of arrows onto her back, and picked up the bow that Robin had taught her to use in that other lifetime. Was it really just a few years ago? 

"Perhaps we will." Keeping a close eye on Tuck, Robin turned his attention to the blurred tracks on the ground. It wasn't much of a start, but it was all that they had for now, and he would follow the marks as best he could. If he trusted in Herne, he knew that he would find the place he sought. It was when he had found it that he would face his greatest challenge - a challenge that Fate had apparently already decreed would be his last. 

**********


	3. Three

~~~~~~  
"And one shall know joy, and one shall know pain, and one shall know the greatest  
of anguish. For one must again be dead before victory  
can come to the Lord of the Hunt."  
Prophecies of Gildas  
~~~~~~

One foot in front of the other, slow but sure, Will Scarlet followed the Baron de Belleme to his den. His eyes were empty, but his heart was confused. Why had the baron abandoned him? Why had he been left behind? He felt betrayed, without knowing why; without having the capability to understand why. Slowly, bit by bit, the baron's control over him began to fracture, inspired by the confused state of Scarlet's mind. De Belleme had never imagined that his once willing servant might be the kind of man to whom anger came so quickly; a man whose emotions were complicated indeed. Still linked to de Belleme; still unable to break free from the man's control, Will was wandering in a fog. His anger was burning, rising unchecked, turning him gradually from mindless shell into a furious, zealous disciple. Far from being unable to act without the baron first directing him, he was recovering his independence - but only in pieces. 

On the outside he looked like a tired version of his normal self, but on the inside Will Scarlet was far from normal. 

Inside his head, there were demons at play. 

********** 

The black shape that slipped from Nottingham Castle did not go entirely unseen, but the only eyes that stared after it were dead ones. There had been three guards who had challenged Nasir, and he had killed each of them with his usual ruthless efficiency. Now he rode astride a black horse, swords returned to his back, daggers and arrows returned to his belt, his distinctive bow gripped in his hand. Nottingham disappeared behind him, and soon he was back amongst the welcoming trees of Sherwood Forest. He didn't head for the camp, where he knew he would be able to do no good by now, and instead took another path. He had not had cause to visit Castle Belleme since the day the gang had learned of the baron's return to life, but he planned to head back there now. He knew nothing of its sale to one of King John's lords, and assumed that it would be where de Belleme would go. 

He was not far from the castle when he saw a man on the path ahead. Whoever it was had heard his horse's hooves by now, and would know that he was coming, so he saw no need to be cautious. Instead he slowed, ready to draw his sword if it proved to be necessary, and saw the man ahead reach for his own weapon. As he did so a smile played across Nasir's usually more serious face. A faint flash of moonlight had revealed the metal rings on the man's jerkin, and had identified a sword that the Saracen would have known anywhere. He reined in his horse. 

"Robin." His voice was soft, as quiet as the hushed forest of the night. Huntingdon looked up at him, amazed and relieved. 

"Nasir! I thought-- Well to be honest I was starting to think I was on my own. What happened?" 

"We were captured." He swung down from the horse's back, not prepared to continue riding whilst the other man walked. "De Belleme." 

"Yes, I know about him. I've seen Herne." Robin ran a hand through his blond hair. "The others?" 

"Turned. Magic." He spoke the words with a hatred that came from long experience of the baron and all his nefarious ways; a hatred that had not been diminished by time. "They went to the camp." 

"Are you sure?" If the camp was lost to the enemy, presumably Tuck was as well. Huntingdon had been angry at first to see Much and Robin at Kirklees, but he was glad now. At least it meant that they were safe. His suspicions of Robin, abated since his meeting with Herne, had changed into a strange sort of comradeship. Perhaps this was how one always felt about a brother; or, at least, a brother who was not Guy of Gisburne. 

"I'm sure." Nasir's voice had a hard edge to it, and Robin didn't bother asking why. Instead he merely nodded, his blond head almost the only visible commodity between the two of them. "I was going to the castle." 

"De Belleme's castle?" Robin shook his head. "He's not there. There's another place, big, but probably not actually a castle. I saw it, but I'm not sure where it is." 

"Then we must find it." Nasir had no need to ask how Robin had seen it, for he knew that Herne showed things to his son. Neither did it bother him that these things tended to be incomplete; Robin knew what he was supposed to know, and that was all. His companion nodded. 

"I was thinking about stopping for the night. Wherever this place is that we're looking for, it might be too easy to miss it in the dark. If you don't have the whole of Nottingham Castle on your tail, it might be best if we started to look for somewhere secure." 

"Nobody is following." Nasir knew that there was no need to worry there. Even if they had seen him leave, the guards were not the type to give chase without orders, and there was nobody left in the castle to give those orders. "But to stop..." 

"Sometimes it's better to lose time in being careful." Robin frowned at him. "And besides, you look like you could do with the rest. You're limping, and there's blood on your face." 

"It's nothing." Nasir had been trying to forget the damage done by Gisburne's men during their aborted interrogation. It was easy enough just to concentrate on every movement; every step; and not think about the pain and the stiffness. That was a skill that he had learnt long ago, back in the war-swept lands of his birth. It was almost an insult to have the injuries mentioned now. Huntingdon understood, but he didn't plan on continuing tonight anyway. 

"There's an old house along the road here, owned by a woman who was forced out of her village when she was denounced as a witch. We'll go there." Nasir raised an eyebrow in curiosity, and Robin smiled. "I used to know her when I was a boy, and I wandered about out here on my own without my tutors and bodyguards. The villagers were so afraid of her powers that they didn't even try to have her arrested, but they did try to set fire to her house. That's why she left them. You know, I don't think the poor old woman knows even one spell, but she seems happy enough on her own these days." Nasir nodded, content to follow his leader's judgement, and Robin smiled at a distant memory. 

"She makes a wonderful stew." 

"Time is short, Robin." Nasir was looking at the sky, searching the stars and the shape of the tree line to pinpoint their position. Robin nodded. 

"I know, but we'll be better for some food and a rest. And if you're going to be any good sneaking about the way you usually do, we're going to have to get that chain off your wrist. You're rattling like an angry ghost." He caught sight of the expression on his companion's face, and had to laugh. "Come on. It's not far now." 

It was to a strange, low house that they went; a place built of mud and branches, with moss that grew thickly over the roof. A chimney hole sent thick black smoke drifting upwards, curling into strange shapes illuminated by the moon. Robin had never been there by night before, and was startled at the strange atmosphere. For a moment he could almost believe that it truly was the house of a witch. 

"I'm sure it used to look a lot more comfortable than this." Tying Nasir's borrowed horse to a convenient tree, Robin approached the low hovel. There didn't seem to be anywhere to knock, so bending down he stuck his head through the roughly cut, square hole that served as a door. Inside a warm, bright fire was burning, and a little old woman sat beside it, stirring stew in a huge iron pot. She didn't look up, but she seemed to know that Robin was there. 

"Come in." Her voice was quavering and high, but sounded strong. "There's plenty here for both of you." 

"How-?" Robin glanced back at Nasir, who was watching and listening with his usual implacability. The Saracen raised an eyebrow at him, which somehow seemed to say, _I'm happy to go in if you are_. Huntingdon nodded. "I'm Robin Hood," he told the old woman, sliding awkwardly through the door and into the room beyond. It was surprisingly warm, even cosy. 

"I know." She still didn't look up, but began to ladle stew into two hand-carved wooden bowls. There were patterns on the bowls, but he couldn't see what they were. "And your friend is from far, far away. Tell him to come in as well. There's plenty of room." 

"I--" Robin shook his head, faintly confused, then gestured to Nasir to follow him. The Saracen slipped in through the door, expressive face asking silent questions. Huntingdon shrugged. 

"I used to come here to visit you," he offered, as an attempt at conversation. "When I was a boy. I thought I might come here again, now. We needed somewhere to rest." 

"I know." She moved aside to show them that there were skins and fleeces laid beside the fire, with room enough for both of them to sit. "Rest and food, before the battle ahead. I know the signs. I've seen them often enough before." 

"Battle?" Robin crouched down beside her, reaching out to make her look up. "What battle is that?" 

"You know." She did look up then, although not at his prompting. "The old battle, always the same. One comes, turns the sky black. Another comes, turns the sky light. Always they come, and always they fight, and always the seasons keep on turning." Robin could see her face well, now that he was close to her and to the fire, and he saw bright, bright blue eyes in a sea of wrinkles. A woman older than any he had ever encountered, with hair so white that it would have made the freshest and purest of snow falls seem faded and grey. Strange that, as a boy, he had seen only an unremarkable old woman; but then a lot had changed since the day he had become Herne's Son. 

"We do have something of a battle to fight as it happens." He motioned Nasir over, and handed him one of the bowls. In the light beside the fire he could see the blood on his companion's face rather more clearly, as well as the signs of pain that had been ignored for too long. Confound the man, with his pride and his infernal self-discipline. He was going to kill himself like that, one day. 

"I know. I know." She turned away from them, pouring water into a third bowl. "I've seen him, riding through the forest as though he already owns it. I've seen him before, too, with you at his side." She nodded at Nasir. "Different then though, weren't you." Nasir inclined his head in a polite gesture that might have been a nod, and she smiled and rose to her feet. Her energy was remarkable, and her movements had considerable grace. 

"You see a lot of things?" The stew tasted just as Robin remembered it; rich and strong, warmed by herbs and plants that he couldn't identify. The old woman dipped a cloth into the water and held it out to Nasir, indicating that he should wash away the blood. 

"I see things. Some things. Not others." She pointed at Robin suddenly, and her bright eyes danced in the midst of their world of deep wrinkles. "I see you, worrying about your place in the world. And I see you with your brothers. A different father for each, and different mothers. You'll fight alongside both of them before your enemy is defeated." 

"I don't know what you're talking about." He stirred his stew, and tried not to think about Guy of Gisburne. Nasir handed the woman back her bowl and rose to his feet. 

"I should keep watch." Clearly he felt that Robin and the old woman should be alone together, the way Robin was always alone with Herne. There was something of that quality about the woman; something that was mysterious and wise. Robin shook his head. 

"Stay. You need the rest, Nasir. We both do. Nobody's going to come." 

"Not tonight, no." Sitting down nearby, the old woman poured away the blood-tinted water, letting it run into the depths of the fire. The flames bent, but weren't diminished. "Tonight he's safe, or thinks he is. In his domain, beyond the forest. High stone walls, and gorse bushes taller than a castle's towers." She nodded at Robin. "You've seen it." 

"But I don't know where to find it." He finished his stew, beginning to feel rather hot in the confined space. As if to ease his discomfort, a cool draft floated in from the chimney hole above his head. The old woman poured hot milk into a mug, and passed it across to him. 

"Herne waits to guide you. Doesn't he always? Your mind is too full of concerns." She watched him as he sipped the milk. "You came here as a child, Robert of Huntingdon. Sleep here as a child again, and perhaps you'll see what your father is trying to show you. Of the six you have one, and be glad that you didn't waste time searching for the others. What comes next?" 

"I..." He remembered Herne's voice, and seemed to hear it again. Nearby Nasir was shifting restlessly, but the old woman reached out one hand to still him. "Someone that I don't trust. He doesn't trust me either, but we both have to trust each other." 

"Then sleep." She threw a handful of wood onto the fire, and the flames shifted and changed colour slightly. A sweet smell, like fine incense, rose in waves. "Both of you." 

"Yes." It was why he had come here, after all; searching for sanctuary from a woman he hadn't thought about in years. Herne had always guided him well, and he knew that it was his father's hand that had led him here. "She's right Nasir." His friend nodded his acquiescence, but it was clear that he was still ill at ease, toying with the heavy iron cuff that was still locked, with its length of chain, to one wrist. It had continued to defy the efforts of his knife, and therefore remained resolutely attached. Robin thought about drawing Albion, and seeing what he could do with the superior blade, but he felt too tired to wield a weapon tonight. He had spent too long today in wandering restlessly, and now he was too sleepy to be of use to anybody. Part of his mind stirred with thoughts that this old woman might be a witch after all, and here he had walked like a lamb. A sacrifice to whatever god she might worship in company with de Belleme. 

"Do you really think that, Robin?" There was a laugh in her voice. "If you were brought here it wasn't as a sacrifice." 

"You can see inside my mind." He turned his head, looking towards Nasir, wondering what his friend was thinking about all of this. The Saracen was frowning. In the firelight his eyes were glittering, but there was no obvious distrust in his expression. Just intense scrutiny; watchfulness, as always. 

"Sleep." The old woman's voice was deeply relaxing, and the sweet smell from the fire brought relaxation to his limbs. Robin stretched, and felt sleep creeping up upon him. Lulled, warmed, comforted, he let the peace come. 

And outside the stumbling figure of Will Scarlet walked on down different roads, eyes unfocused and unseeing, the voice of Simon de Belleme echoing always in his mind. The peace that belonged to Robin and Nasir that night did not touch him. He had no thought of sleep or food or warmth. He had no thought of anything save fury, and no knowledge of anything save pain. 

********** 

When Gisburne felt fear rise inside him, he knew that he was himself again. The long ride from Sherwood Forest had been a time of recovering senses; of returning memories and crystallising thoughts; and he had been constantly aware of the changes. He remembered de Belleme arriving at Nottingham Castle. He remembered the grand entrance; the confused guards, who didn't understand why they had let the baron pass. There had been a peculiar smell, and a feeling of heaviness in his limbs... And then nothing, with clarity, until he had arrived in the outlaws' camp in Sherwood. He knew the sorts of things that the baron was capable of, and the half conscious, docile Abbot Hugo was proof enough of what had happened. Guy's natural conceit told him that he had withstood the magic because he was the better man, and he let the feeling swell his chest. It helped to blow the cobwebs away, and let his sense of self return. It broke the last chains within his mind. 

And now he was sitting on his horse, staring up at the new Castle Belleme, and the fear he felt told him that he was cured completely. There had been no emotion save anger whilst he had been under the baron's control, and it felt good to welcome others back now. Fear was not usually a pleasant feeling, but it was better than emptiness. Better than mindlessness. Now he had to decide what to do next. 

"Take the horses, Gisburne." throwing the young knight the reins of his mount, the Baron de Belleme strode rapidly away. Gisburne stared after him, hate drawing his blond brows together, and his mouth into a thin red line. He nodded though, polite and concise, muttering a respectful acknowledgement towards the baron's departing back. Hugo and the Sheriff followed after him, with Little John trailing vacantly along behind. 

"Take care of the horses, Gisburne." He waited until they were all out of earshot before muttering the words in mockery. Who did de Belleme think he was? Gisburne would be damned if he was going to stay now that he had regained control of his mind, and he had had his fill of obeying the baron's orders. He mulled over the possibility of burning the place to the ground, and destroying de Belleme in the process, but threw the idea aside almost immediately. It wouldn't work - the baron was far too clever for that. There had to be something though. Some way to defeat the man. Some way of foiling whatever plan he had devised. But the only thing that Gisburne could think of now was escape. 

"Take care of your own horses." He raised his voice, but the words had no real defiance about them. He was shaken and anxious, eager to get away before the baron realised that he had broken free of the spell placed upon him. The last thing that he wanted was to be bewitched again; perhaps to a greater degree this time, like the Sheriff and Little John. His hand went slowly to his chest, pulling aside the torn material of his rich velvet tunic to reveal a pentagram smudged and blurred. He wiped away the remains, then pulled the cloth back around him, covering up the faint red stains that lingered. Such freedom might be largely symbolic, but as a gesture it made him feel better. Swinging back up onto his horse, he turned it around and headed back to the gates. 

In the ramshackle building behind him, Abbot Hugo saw him leave, but not so much as a frown troubled his placid face. Had he been of a free mind he might have told the baron what he had seen, but instead he forgot it straight away. Had he been aware of it, such irony would have pleased Guy of Gisburne a great deal. 

********** 

Robin had hoped to walk through the night, but it soon became obvious that they could not. Marion was tired, although she would never have admitted to it, and he could see that even the few short weeks she had spent in Kirklees Abbey had taken their toll. Tuck was also slower than usual, still troubled by the blow to the head. Robin suspected that he had been as hurt by the mere fact of who had struck the blow, as by the blow itself. 

They stopped in the end in a hollow, worn away years ago by the passage of a stream that had long since changed direction. There were bushes that helped to shelter them, and although they did not dare to light a fire, they did not feel the cold too greatly. Tuck lay silently, with Much crouched beside him, sleeping despite their unease. Robin didn't sleep at all. 

"You need the rest as much as the rest of us, Robin." Marion had picked some berries, and was sipping at some of the juice that she had crushed from them. Mixed with the water that they had brought with them it made a drink that was sweet and refreshing, but she wasn't really tasting it. Robin shook his head. 

"I feel like I've been asleep for years. How can I ever need to sleep again?" 

"Because you're back with us, that's why. Your needs are different now." She reached out one hand to him, and put it gently on his shoulder. "I missed you so much Robin." 

"I know." He smiled at her, and reached up to put his own hand over hers. "And I'm sorry." 

"Sorry that you were away, or sorry that you're going away again? Only this time you won't be returning in a few years, when the forest spirits, or the ghosts of Sherwood, or whatever it is that saved you last time decide to bring you back. Will you." 

"This time they won't be able to save me, even if I do... even if I do die within their reach. Herne will see to that. Remember the Summer King, Marion. It's a fable, a tradition of sorts, that dates back centuries. He has to die to keep the seasons turning." 

"But it's not summer anymore, Robin. The Summer King died more than a month ago. It was supposed to be Robin... Huntingdon... but in the end it didn't have to be. Why do you have to die now?" 

"Because I didn't die before." He frowned, trying and failing to remember just how long ago that had been. Not the end of the summer just past, certainly. The one before that? Or the one before that? Even longer ago? "Don't fight it, Marion. Don't try to think about what you'd rather could happen. The world doesn't work like that." 

"I thought I'd never see you again. I've lived for two years with the knowledge of your death, and I've closed my heart to all thought of ever seeing your smile, or hearing your voice. But you came back, and I can see you again. I can hear you saying my name, and I can hear the laugh in your voice, and I can see the way that you stand when you're proud to be doing Herne's work. I can't go through it all again, Robin. I can't lose you again." 

"Yes you can." He reached out then, urgently, taking her hands in his and holding them close to his chest. "You can because you have to. If I didn't believed that you have that strength within you I'd never have trusted myself to go near Kirklees Abbey. I'd have left you unaware of any of this." 

"You'd have returned and not seen me?" Her fury was obvious, and she tried to pull free from him, but he held her close and wouldn't let her escape. 

"I'd have tried. It would have torn me apart, but I'd have done it." He smiled, very gently. "But I didn't need to, did I, because you do have the strength. It's the strength to carry on when the world you love is falling apart around you. I know you have it because I know that we all do. Every one of us. We've stood strong while our country is torn down; while every piece of gold it possesses is stolen by foreign kings to pay for their crowns and their wars. We've stood strong while our people are forced into slavery, made serfs to lords with names they can't even pronounce. We've stood strong in the face of cruel laws and oppression, and we've helped others to do the same. Surely that - surely seeing everything that matters to any of us being threatened and hurt - is harder than just to lose me." 

"Of course it isn't." She leant against him, and the fruit juice she had been drinking spilled from the water-skin, staining the ground around them like blood. "You know it isn't. The people of England might be the reason for every fight we've ever fought. The oppression of our country might be the spark that brought us all together, and made every one of us mad with fury and a desire for vengeance... But they're people Robin. Faceless people whose names I'll never know. You're the one that I love. You're the one that I'll grieve for. That I've _already_ grieved for. I spent a year away from the forest, barely able to look upon it for the pain it caused me. When Little John sent word that he was going away, to Hathersage with Much, I couldn't meet with him to say goodbye. I knew that I wouldn't be able to look at him. Robin, every day of my life was a torture." 

"It'll be different this time." He wished that he believed that were true. "Marion, I'm not doing this because I want to die. I'm not going to face the baron because I want to leave you. I'm going because it's the only way. The only way to save Herne and Sherwood, even England, from the powers that the baron works for. I'm going because someone has to, and that someone has to be me. Herne told me... It's one of the prophecies of Gildas, and how can any of us argue with that? Remember how he saw my coming? How he wrote of the Hooded Man that would come? Well I came." 

"And now you find that he's written about your death as well." She lowered her head, no longer wanting to look at the man she loved. "I don't think that's fair, Robin. Why should his words come true? Why does he get to decide what happens? This isn't even his world any more. He's been dead so long nobody even remembers what he looked like." 

"Some people have the power to see things. You know as well as I do that the future doesn't happen because Gildas said that it would. He saw it because he knew that it would happen. The way that sometimes I see things that are going to happen. He said that the one that had been dead had to die again. That means me. It's what's necessary to end this." 

"I wish I had your courage, Robin." She lay still in his arms, and listened to a hungry owl shriek its rage at the world. Robin stroked her hair, and wished that he really did have the courage she was crediting him with. 

"I'm not brave, Marion. I keep wishing that there could be another way. I keep wishing that the whole of time could just be like this, with you and me together, and nothing coming between us. I don't feel brave at all." 

"But you are." She closed her eyes, wishing for sleep to take away at least a little of her pain. "If you weren't you'd run away. We both would." 

"Fate would find us. Eventually." 

"I know." Her voice echoed in the stillness, and she realised for the first time that Tuck and Much were awake. Awake and listening. Much was crying, almost soundlessly. For the first time since she had met the boy, she could think of nothing that would help him. "I just wish..." 

"We all wish." He stared up at the sky, with its many stars. Stars that were the same as the ones he had looked at on all those other occasions when he had lain on the ground, with Marion at his side. The same stars he had looked at as a boy, when Marion's name was unknown to him, and he had expected a life no more remarkable than that as a miller, helping his foster father to run the mill that kept the family alive. Did he wish that that had been the life he had ended up with? Did he wish that this destiny had never been his, that this responsibility had never been his? That he wasn't waiting now to go to his death, because of a prophecy written for him long before he had been born? He knew the answer to that, just as he had known it when he had said goodbye to Marion once before. Regret nothing. Forget nothing. Something caught his eye and he glanced up. 

"Robin?" Marion felt him moving, and turned her head, but he stilled her. 

"It's nothing. I thought I saw somebody." 

"Somebody watching us?" She was alert then, as awake as though she had never closed her eyes and tried to relax. "It might be one of the baron's men." 

"I don't think so." He moved anyway, bowing to her concern, sliding out from underneath her and standing up. In the distance he thought that he saw a half bent, shadowy figure moving away; a figure that seemed to be an impossibly old woman, with black clothes that swept the ground. She made no sound as she moved, and if she was an old woman her speed seemed impossibly fast. He dismissed it as a trick of the light. If he had seen anything at all it had been some forest animal, scurrying away into the darkness after his movements had disturbed it. 

"Is there anything there?" Much was beside him, staring out into the night with worried eyes. Robin shook his head. 

"No. Just my imagination, or maybe a fox. You know what the forest is like at night." 

"Full of ghosts." The boy looked pale in the moonlight. Robin clapped him on the shoulder. 

"Ghosts of Sherwood never hurt the people of Sherwood. You have nothing to fear from anything that lives within these woods, Much. You should know that." 

"I do. I think." He turned away, intending to go back down to join the others, but stopped before he had taken a step. "What's that, Robin?" 

"What?" Herne's Son turned, looking to where the boy was pointing. In the pale gleam of the shining moon, something was flashing. Something that seemed to be made of metal, that lay where he had first seen the shape he had taken to be an old woman. He moved towards it, cautious and slow. What strange metal object had been left here? He knew before he was even halfway there, and could not stop the cry of surprise that burst from his lips. 

"What is it?" Tuck and Marion were coming towards him then, and he stretched out, grabbing the shining object just as they reached him. When he turned to face them, the white, reflected light of it was bright within his eyes. 

"Albion." He didn't know how it had come to be here, or what must have happened to Huntingdon to cause it to be brought, but he was glad to have it in his hands. The sword of Herne, his weapon, just as it had been his weapon before. 

"Albion?" Marion recognised it too, knowing every inch of its perfect blade almost as well as did Robin himself. "But how?" 

"And why?" added Tuck. Robin shook his head. 

"I don't know. I don't suppose it matters." He slid the sword into his belt, into the place that had always been ready for it. "But it does mean that we know we're on the right track. As far as he's able, Herne will be with us, and will protect us." 

"But he won't save your life." Marion's voice sounded bleak against his new hope, and he didn't bother trying to reassure her. He couldn't. 

"It's not about living, Marion. It's about fighting the battle." His hand wouldn't leave Albion's hilt, and he felt the joy of its touch dance through his mind. "It's just about winning." 

And for all his secret sorrows, he believed that; and for the first time since he had learned he had to die again, he knew that he was strong enough to face that death. He knew that he would meet the baron without fear. 

Fate, the world and his father could ask of him nothing else. 

********** 

In the giant, ramshackle house that he had taken for his own, the Baron de Belleme was making magic. The hall had once been a grand place; a massive room lined with shields and tapestries, filled with oaken furniture and statuettes. Now it was empty, the walls bare and running with water, the floor strewn with sawdust and rotting straw. A pentagram, fashioned from copper, stood firm and upright, daubed with oils that burnt without scarring its polished surface. Bowls of water and wine, of blood and scented oils, stood in a carefully arranged pattern, and fires burnt in a circle around the centre of the floor. The baron stood within the circle, dressed from head to toe in black as was his custom, all but his pale white face hidden by the thick black robes that covered him. His gloved hands made strange symbols in the air, and his head was thrown back, eyes closed, facing a world that existed beyond the true one. His lips moved in silent mutterings, rhythmical but ugly. It was a sight often seen in Castle Belleme in the old days, though in that dreadful place there had been no witnesses. Here there were three. 

The Abbot Hugo was the abbot no longer, his mind snatched away from him, as that of his brother had been taken before. With Robert and Little John, oblivious to the antagonisms that should have existed between them, he stood now, a circle within the circle of fire, surrounding de Belleme in an honour guard. All three were dressed in dark red clothes of heavy material, their feet wrapped in sandals of scarlet leather. Hugo carried a staff carved from the thigh bone of a horse, his brother held two crossed swords, and John a goblet filled to the brim with thick, dark blood. They were chanting together, unaware of the words, unknowing of the tongue in which they spoke. De Belleme's thin frame swayed to the rhythm of their words. 

There was a large wooden goblet on the floor at his feet. Plain and unadorned it had been fashioned for him by a carpenter in France, and the baron had kept it by his side ever since. There had been something about that carpenter, and he had known then that the goblet had possessed powers. Many times he had drunk from it at table, and many times he had made others drink from it, on less auspicious occasions. Now it was filled with diamonds; the ones lost and recovered by Hugo, heaped in a pile in the exact centre of the room. Rich velvet cloths draped the stem of the goblet, and the diamonds reflected their scarlet colour, as well as each flicker of red and gold from the many fires. A thousand candles, arranged against one wall, burst simultaneously into light. Something laughed, but it wasn't any of the four people who were present. Simon de Belleme lowered his head. 

"Soon." His voice was hoarse from the long hours of whispering, and from the smoke and heat from the many fires. He could taste the strong incense and oils that filled the room with their sweet and sickly odours, and his throat felt heavy with their cloying presence. It didn't stop him smiling, and raising his voice to join the chanting of his companions. At his feet the diamonds began to move, rattling like bubbles in a vat of boiling water, and the fires round about began to burn brighter, faster, wilder. One by one the thousand candles keeled over and fell, and their flames ran like tiny snakes across the floor. The spattered wax made shapes and runes on the flagstones, and the oil painted onto the pentagram started to hiss. Loudly, violently, with as much apparent glee as though he were still in control of his senses, the Sheriff of Nottingham began to laugh; a mad, satisfied laugh that was taken up by his two companions in bewitchment. Only de Belleme remained sober; and as the laughter of his mindless slaves finally died away, at last he opened his eyes. Where once had been coloured irises, and bright, cold whiteness, now there was nothing but blood red intensity. Wide, dark pupils sank away to nothing, and each orb glowed with an unearthly light. With a mighty crack the pentagram burst into furious flame, and Hugo, Robert and John began to chant once more. The noise filled the room; filled the building; brought a darkness to the place that had never been seen before. 

Outside it was nearing dawn, but there was no dawn in the halls of de Belleme. There was no sunlight, no breeze, no fragrance of the approaching winter. There was only choking incense and, surrounding it all, the flickering flames of hell. 

********** 

Robin awoke feeling refreshed, although he had not expected to feel that way. He opened his eyes, blinking up at the low roof of the hovel. He could see straight through the chimney hole, for the fire had burnt itself out. 

"We should be on our way." He spoke the words before he was fully awake, sitting up as though still in a dream. It was dark in the hut without the fire to light it, but in the pale glow from the doorway he could see Nasir, already awake, sitting cross-legged nearby. The Saracen's dark eyes were open, watching him. Of the old woman there was no sign. 

"Nasir." Stretching his arms, Robin looked around. "Have you seen our host this morning?" His answer was a slow shake of the head. "We must have been deeply asleep not to have noticed her leave. Are you hungry?" Again the head shake. "No, me neither. That stew that we ate last night must have been more filling that I realised at the time. I feel as though I've already eaten this morning. I'd like to say thankyou to old Peg, but I suppose we should just leave." 

"Something strange has happened." Nasir was rubbing his left wrist as he spoke, the fingers of his right hand moving across the skin as though searching for something. Robin didn't make the connection at first. 

"Plenty of strange things have happened. That's why we have to get going." His hand fell, as it always did before he set out anywhere, to the sword hanging at his side. "We must--" He broke off. Albion was no longer beside him. 

"It was gone when I awoke." Nasir's slow, quiet explanation hung in the air of the dark, empty room. "I went out... but there was nothing." 

"But Albion?" Huntingdon's fingers searched his belt, as though there was some chance that he might have missed the sword the first time. "It can't just have disappeared. And how could that old woman have taken it without me noticing?" 

"The same way that she did this." Nasir raised his left wrist then, and Huntingdon realised that the manacle had gone. Where before there had been the iron cuff, with its length of chain attached, now there was simply a wrist. A few grazes remained on the skin, showing where the metal had been, but aside from that it had gone without a trace. "I did not see or feel it. It was just gone." 

"I don't understand." Robin felt a shiver run through him, and wished that he was wearing warmer clothes. The coming winter felt closer this morning, and he did not feel ready for it. "I don't understand a--" His sudden silence and obvious shock must have suggested the approach of danger, for Nasir was beside him in an instant as though ready for battle. Robin gestured to him to stand down. 

"It's alright." He had merely noticed something; felt something inside his shirt that had not been there when he had lain down to sleep. He pulled it out. Whatever it was, it was long and thin, wrapped in a soft grey cloth. It felt warm in his hand, and his fingers tingled with the powers that he knew came from Herne. His hands shook a little as he unwrapped the cloth, even though, by now, he knew what to expect. 

"The Silver Arrow." He whispered it as though he were staring at an object of great reverence, which, in a way, he was. Unlike the first Robin he had been raised without knowledge of the arrow, and of its significance; but he knew of it now, and his fingers curled around it in a protective caress. "Herne must have sent this, in exchange for Albion. Loxley must need the sword." His eyes snapped up, staring excitedly at Nasir, who remained silent. "We have to go, Nasir. We have to get to wherever it is that we're going. We're needed." Nasir's answer, as always, was a brief nod. Huntingdon stowed the arrow away again, handling it as though it was made of china, whilst his companion went out into the weak morning sunlight. The strange events of the night had unsettled the silent Saracen, but he had a calm acceptance of all things in the world that helped to keep him focused. He decided to tend to the horse. 

Huntingdon left the hovel a few moments later, running a hand through his unruly hair. It smelt of smoke and damp earth, a scent that seemed to fit on this dreary and faintly misty morning. Nasir handed him the sword that he had stolen from the dungeon guard the previous evening, and which he had brought with him from the castle without quite understanding why. There was a reason for all things, he told himself as he pulled it free from the stolen horse's saddle. Robin nodded his acceptance. 

"Thankyou. I might have Herne's arrow with me, but I feel better with a sword as well. There's no telling who we're going to have to fight." His eyes narrowed slightly, and he regarded his companion with thoughtful eyes. "You seem a little stiff, Nasir. Are you going to be alright if it comes to a battle?" 

"I am fine." Nasir turned away, adjusting the reins of the horse. "We should go." 

"Nasir..." Regretting the question now, Robin reached out to put a hand on the other man's shoulder. "I didn't mean to insult you. It's just... well you're obviously not yourself, that's all. What happened at Nottingham Castle?" 

"Gisburne." Nasir turned back to look at him, and his dark eyes were bright with hatred. "I think perhaps they hurt Will more. They were... more angry by then." 

"Damn." Robin spun around, walking away a few paces. "And who knows where Will is right now, or what he's doing. If he's still under the baron's spell he's probably not capable of taking things easy. We need to find him. If I--" He broke off at Nasir's hand gesture, and frowned. "What is it? Is there somebody coming?" Nasir nodded, already drawing an arrow to fit to his bow. He motioned with one hand towards the road leading from the north, then indicated that they should retreat into the bushes near to the old woman's carefully camouflaged home. By now Robin could hear the approaching hoof beats as well, and his heart quickened in response. Who was it? One of the baron's men? Some innocent traveller? In the current climate he wasn't quite able to believe that anybody was truly innocent. Whoever it was that was coming was bound to be tied up in all of this somehow. Beside him Nasir raised his bow, lining up what was sure to be a perfect shot just as soon as the target became visible. 

He came in that instant; a blond figure on a big black horse, riding so fast that it seemed he must have a pack of ravening wolves on his tail. Robin caught a glimpse of a pale, determined face beneath a fringe of sweat-drenched golden hair, and his eyes widened in surprise. Beside him Nasir tensed, and his wrist moved to loose the arrow. Robin jumped. 

"No!" He swept his arm aside, knocking his companion and making the arrow go wild. Startled, the horse reared up, causing its rider to swear in a loud voice. He fought with the beast, at the same time drawing a long, well-cared for sword. 

"Who's there?" His voice was unmistakable, even if he didn't look quite himself. Nasir glared at Robin, clearly furious. The outlaw leader managed an apologetic smile. 

"Sorry. I thought he might be useful." The only response that he got was in Arabic, which he didn't understand, but his companion's expression clearly said _Him?!_

"What is going--" Gisburne's angry inquiry broke off when he saw the two men, and his brow darkened into a furious frown. "You!" 

"Gisburne." Nodding politely, Huntingdon stepped out into the open. "Going somewhere?" 

"I don't have the time to fight you, Wolfshead." Climbing down from his horse, the young knight brandished his sword. "But don't think that I won't if I have to." 

"Believe it or not I don't want to fight you." Robin was watching him carefully, on the look out for any sign of enchantment. "We're looking for the baron." 

"You? You've no chance of defeating him." Gisburne's scorn stung, but Robin didn't allow himself to react to it. Instead he kept his slight smile steady on his face, and wished that he could see what Nasir was doing. 

"Somebody has to stop him. He has two of my friends in his power, and I'd like to help them. I also want to make sure that he doesn't go through with whatever he's got planned this time." Ignoring the instincts that were telling him to draw his sword, Robin kept his eyes on the expression on the other man's face. Gisburne was worried; desperate even. But was he desperate enough? "Do you know where he is?" 

"I might." The Norman's sharp eyes flickered from Robin to Nasir and back again, although he showed no sign of any surprise over the fact that the Saracen wasn't safely locked away back at the castle. "Are you saying that you want me to help you?" 

"Are you offering?" Robin wanted to cast a glance over his shoulder and make sure that Nasir was not about to shoot Gisburne down, but didn't dare take his eyes off the knight. Sir Guy smiled sardonically. 

"Do you honestly believe that that would work? Me, help a Wolfshead? a Saracen? I'm going to Nottingham Castle, and I'm going to get an army to follow me back here. We'll deal with the baron. He'll die for what he did to me." 

"If you go back to the castle to get help he might have the chance to finish whatever it is that he's trying to do." Robin took a tentative step forward, wishing that he could trust Gisburne not to try something. "If you want to defeat him, maybe it's me you should be talking to." 

"Work with you?" Gisburne shook his head. "_You_ are an outlaw, and _I_ am the steward of the Sheriff of Nottingham. Now if you're planning on fighting me, I'd be happy to oblige you. Otherwise you'd better just let me leave." 

"Guy..." Robin tried to forget how much the man annoyed him, and concentrated instead on Herne's words, echoing in his mind. _Trust one who trusts you, even if neither truly trusts the other_. There were few people in the world that he trusted less than Guy of Gisburne. "You know that we're on the same side here." 

"All I know is that you're wanted by the law I am sworn to uphold." The knight could not have sounded more self-important if he had been trying, and Robin fought the rising irritation. 

"Desperate times, Sir Guy." He held his hands out from his sides. "I don't have my sword in my hand. I'm not trying to fight you, or to get in your way. If you want to leave, nobody is going to stop you." 

"Tell that to him." Gisburne's eyes flicked towards Nasir, and Robin raised his voice slightly, addressing his words to his companion even though he kept his eyes fixed on his enemy. 

"Put the bow away, Nasir." He used his most authoritative voice; the one that most people tended to respond to without question. Nasir was not most people, but he was one of Robin's most faithful followers; and Huntingdon knew that the weapon had been lowered even before he saw the change of expression on Gisburne's face. 

"Now." He folded his arms, and tried not to think about his secret relationship to this man; tried not to think about anything save what he was saying. "You know that I'm a man of my word, Guy. I might be an outlaw, but I'm also the son of an Earl. My father has always been known to be an honourable man, and I can assure you that he raised me to be the same way." 

"I'm not convinced." Gisburne was practically pouting, his familiarly petulant expression making him look like a spoilt child. "You are my sworn enemy. Why would I help you? And more to the point, why would you want me to?" 

"Because there are only two of us, that's why." Robin didn't add the rest of that thought - the fact that Nasir was well below his best at the moment. "We have no idea where our friends are. There was a silence, and he tried not to be too impatient. "Look, there's plenty of time for hating each other. If you want to throw down the gauntlet when this is all over, I'll fight you anywhere you choose - but right now I need another sword on my side. You know that you don't have time to get back to Nottingham Castle. Whatever de Belleme is up to, he must be near the finish of it. Do you plan to rescue the Sheriff?" 

"Of course I do!" Gisburne looked insulted. De Rainault treated him appallingly, and often gave the young knight considerable reason to hate him; but Sir Guy, for all his cruelty and petulance, had been raised to the knight's code of honour. He would do anything to help the Sheriff and his brother to escape from the Baron de Belleme. 

"Of course." Robin nodded, understanding a little. It was hard to imagine wanting to risk life and limb to save a man as repugnant as was Robert de Rainault, but he had grown up with the same codes as Gisburne, and sympathised with the theory at least. "Then do we have a deal?" 

"A deal?" The knight's face was a picture of insult and disgust. "I wouldn't make a deal with you if the king's life depended on it." He nodded slowly. "But I'll help. You can be trusted I suppose, even if the rest of your band can't." 

"If that's the most gracious acceptance we're going to get I suppose we'll have to go with it." Robin looked back at Nasir, who was watching without a flicker of emotion. "Naz, Sir Guy was going at quite a speed, so he should have left a trail that we can follow easily enough. Why don't you go on ahead?" His answer was a nod, extremely wary and slow. Nasir's eyes had not left Gisburne, and clearly the Saracen did not think highly of Huntingdon's attempt at an alliance. Naturally enough, though, he said nothing, and merely walked away. The stiffness he had been displaying earlier had gone; no doubt because he was loathe to allow Gisburne to see such weakness. Huntingdon frowned, concerned. How much longer could his friend keep going, given his obvious injuries? He turned to the Norman who still stood nearby. 

"Do you have any idea how far we've got to go?" 

"Not far. I stopped for the night, or most of it. The forest was too thick, and I couldn't see my way through it in the dark. If we can make good speed we should be there by noon." He frowned. "It won't be easy to follow my tracks though. Some stretches of road were rather dry and unyielding. There won't be much in the way of signs, and I confess that I wasn't really taking notes." 

"Nasir will find us the way." _Always supposing that he can keep going that long_. Robin took the reins of Nasir's 'borrowed' horse, and began to lead it away down the road. "Come on then, if you're coming." 

"You're _leading_ the beast? For goodness sake, Huntingdon, we have the horses, so why don't we ride?" 

"Because there are only two horses. Besides, Nasir will find it easier to follow your trail if he's on foot." Trying not to sound too frustrated, Robin sighed at Gisburne's impatience and lack of thought. Was he really related to the man? It seemed impossible to believe most of the time. "If you hadn't been in such a hurry yourself, you might have noticed a few more landmarks, and then we wouldn't need to rely on following your tracks. As it is, you'll just have to put up with the lack of speed." His eyes narrowed. "Although if Nasir is going at all slowly, I think we both know who's to blame." 

"That wasn't my fault." Ordinarily the idea of beating up a defenceless man wouldn't have bothered Gisburne too much, but for some reason Huntingdon's disapproval rather got to him. "I was bewitched." 

"I wish I thought you'd have behaved differently otherwise." Robin bit his lip, angry with himself for saying too much. He wasn't supposed to care what sort of person Gisburne was; what sort of things he did. The last thing that he wanted was for anybody, Sir Guy included, to suspect that there was a link between the two of them. Gisburne, however, was blind to any subtext. 

"This is war, Huntingdon." For once the familiar petulance was not audible in his voice. "It's us against them, and they shouldn't expect any mercy. It's not my fault that you chose their side instead of your own." 

"You think that you and I belong on the same side? That I'd want to be a part of the things you do?" Robin shook his head. "Having titles, being noble, does not give us the right to treat people like animals. Sometimes I can't believe how different we are." 

"Is there any reason why we shouldn't be?" Gisburne scowled. "You're a fool, Huntingdon, and the sooner we deal with de Belleme and part company, the better." 

"Maybe you're right." Turning his eyes back to the road ahead, Robin tried not to let himself feel too disappointed; and tried to tell himself that he had no reason to feel such disappointment anyway. Gisburne shared his blood, but that didn't make him a brother. It didn't mean that they had to share anything else. 

"Of course I'm right." Sir Guy was looking about, frowning at the scenery around them. "It all looks rather clearer by day, you know. Perhaps it won't even take us until noon to reach the baron's stronghold." 

"Good." By the look of things they could not arrive too soon. Nasir had slowed noticeably, and it was now clear that he was in a lot of pain. Damn Gisburne, and every guard who had ever obeyed his orders. 

"Good?" Guy didn't share his satisfaction. "Do you have any idea what we're going to do when we get there?" 

"Not really, no." Robin thought about the Silver Arrow, safe within his jerkin. How would he know when to use it? And who would he have to go through first? 

"I won't let you hurt the Sheriff." Gisburne's voice was soft, and filled with the notes of warning. "He isn't himself, and even if he was..." 

"I don't plan on hurting the Sheriff." Robin didn't bother warning the knight not to do anything to John and Will either. "I just want de Belleme." 

"Good." Gisburne seemed prepared to accept that, and Robin's mind drifted back over Herne's prophecy. _Trust one who trusts you, even if neither truly trusts the other_. Would Gisburne trust him if he knew the truth about what lay between them? Could he ever take the risk of telling him? But that would be foolish, and he knew that it would lead only to disaster. Guy of Gisburne could never find out that they were brothers, and Robin himself had to stop thinking about it. Had to stop looking at him now as though searching for a family likeness. 

Time now to think of nothing but the Baron de Belleme. 

********** 

The further they walked, the clearer the image grew in Robin's head. He saw a building, old and in a state of disrepair, yet still displaying all of the wealth and splendour once attached to it. Huge bushes covered in unpleasant thorns grew up around the outside walls, and the building itself was a mass of creeping ivy. The greenery splintered the bricks and tore holes in the roof, and had splintered the glass in the little chapel off to one side, but the main building itself was still in good shape. Robin saw it all through a fog, blurring the images around the edges, but he was certain enough of what he could see. His instincts were surer still, and when they came to a fork in the road, he didn't even hesitate before choosing which path to take. It took them through thick forest, but nobody suggested that he might have chosen wrongly. There was nothing about his pace or manner that suggested at any uncertainty. 

They arrived in the late morning, when it should have been bright and sunny, but wasn't. Here, in this desolate and overgrown place it seemed that the coming winter had already arrived. The few trees that grew nearby had lost their leaves, and there were no birds in the big gorse hedges that surrounded the place. Tuck looked up at the building and shivered. 

"I should have guessed we were looking for somewhere like this. Simon de Belleme was a strange fellow even before he turned to the dark arts." 

"And this place makes Castle Belleme look warm and cheerful." Marion stared up at the broken roof, and let her eyes trail back down again, over the many windows. "I wonder if he saw us arrive." 

"I doubt it." Robin's confidence was familiar, even if it had been a long time since they had seen it in action in this way. "He'll be busy about his spells." 

"Conjuring demons." Much was clearly unhappy with the situation. "Why are there so many people who want to do horrible things with magic?" 

"Because there are always people who want power, Much, that's why." Robin smiled at him, his face gentle and his eyes sad. "And around here, with all of the ancient powers that exist in Sherwood, there's a lot of power to be had. There are other places in England that must be the same." 

"It's horrible." Much couldn't help staring up at the narrow window slits, imagining that the baron was watching them out of every one. Tuck squeezed the boy's shoulder, agreeing with him but anxious not to show it. 

"What do we do now, Robin?" Now that they were here it felt awkward; no more talking, no more wondering. He wondered how Robin was going to die. For the first time in some while Loxley hesitated. He didn't know what to do any more than did his friends. How was this supposed to work? How could he stop de Belleme if he died? How should his death come about? Was he to allow the baron to kill him? But that would mean that his enemy would win, which certainly could not bode well for Sherwood or for England. He had hoped that all would become clear when he arrived at this place, but now that he was here, nothing was any clearer than it had been when he had first come to realise he was still alive. 

"Keep watch," he said finally. "There could be servants, bodyguards, anybody. I'm going inside." 

"On your own?" Marion shook her head. "No, Robin. I'm going too." 

"Marion..." He sighed, remembering many other arguments, particularly in the early days of their relationship. Marion would not be dissuaded, and perhaps it was unfair of him to expect her to be. He nodded. "Alright. But you others wait out here, and keep your eyes open. Don't let anybody into or out of the building." He paused, and smiled at them both. "Be careful." 

"You too." Tuck wanted to say something more, but Robin clapped him on the back, making the definite point that this was not a time for meaningful words and long goodbyes. 

"Look after him, Much," he said, as brightly as he could manage. "His head won't be healed for a while yet." 

"Alright Robin." Pleased to be given the extra responsibility, Much blinked back tears. "You'll be careful, won't you." 

"Of course." Robin's smile was warm and all too brief. Taking Marion's hand, drawing Albion as he went, he headed off into the dismal building. Tuck shook his head. 

"Headstrong," he murmured sadly. "Always so headstrong. Both of them." 

"And brave," Much told him. "Braver than I am." 

"And braver than I am as well." Tuck sighed. "Come on, lad. We've got work to do. There's no telling how many doors a place like this has, and we're going to have to watch them all." 

"What do we do if it's demons trying to get past us?" Much's eyes were wide. Tuck hefted his stick, and wished that his head didn't hurt so much. 

"Then we stop them, Much," he said, in a fair attempt at matching their leader's calm confidence. "We stop them." 

********** 

Inside his crumbling home, the Baron de Belleme was in an ecstasy of spell-casting, his usually solemn face split by a wide, horrible grin. If he was bothered by the disappearance of Guy of Gisburne he gave no sign of it, for such trivialities could not be allowed to interrupt his work. Head thrown back, eyes shut tight, he was bellowing his spells towards the high, cold ceiling. Stationed around him, unmoving in their places, Little John and the brothers de Rainault chanted the words in echo. All three were deathly pale, for the baron alone among them retained any of the colours of the living. Almost all other colour in the room - all other life - seemed to have been sucked into the goblet at the baron's feet. The diamonds were barely contained by it now, bouncing and rattling madly, the uppermost ones almost ready to leap free. They were flashing with the light of every colour of the rainbow, though the goblet itself seemed soaked in shadows. As the baron's chanting reached its highest pitch, around its rim the goblet began to smoulder. 

"I shall give you form." Switching to English at the end of the last verse of chanting, de Belleme spread his arms wide and faced the pentagram before him. The flames that doused it were burning with a furious strength now, although the pentagram itself seemed in no danger of beginning to melt. A plume of smoke rose from the goblet full of diamonds, and the outermost stones fell to the ground. They skittered about on the flagstones, striking sparks with every bounce, and for a second that was the only noise that filled the room. Then John stepped forward, pulling from out of his robes a large, heavy book. It was a Bible, written in Hebrew, ancient and bound in cracked, decaying leather. With a deep bow he handed the book to de Belleme, before returning to his place. 

"Soon." De Belleme did not need to search for the right page, for the book fell open in his hands. Voice deep, he chanted the words that he found there, in a language that was more ancient even than the one in which they were writen. At the bidding of his spells the dark shape beside the pentagram began to take form. In time it was possible to discern the shape of a giant winged creature, powerful and furious, massivly strong. Whatever it was it had a beak more fierce than that of any falcon, and talons as long and as hooked as scimitars. As de Belleme's voice continued, a pair of as yet still insubstantial eyes began to glow red. 

"It's coming." As the shadowy shape grew before them, the three mindless servants broke into gleeful, excited laughter, the mouthpieces of de Belleme's own mirth. Approaching down the corridor, Robin and Marion heard the noise, and recognised John's voice amongst the others. They exchanged a look. 

"Poor John." Robin knew how much his old friend had hated de Belleme for bewitching him once before. When he was freed from the spell this time he would be mortified were he to find out what he had been a part of. 

"We can help him, can't we Robin?" Marion looked pale in the bad light inside the corridor. Robin held her close, walking onwards all the time. 

"Of course we can. Maybe not straight away, but we'll do something." He lifted a hand to his mouth to indicate that she should be quieter now, and pulled her close to the wall. "Keep back for now. I'm going to challenge de Belleme. Try to keep the others from interfering." 

"You want me to shoot at them?" She was incredulous, but she was already fitting an arrow to her bow. He smiled. 

"Not _at_ them. Near them. Warning shots." 

"Do you think that'll do any good in their current state?" 

"Yes. I hope so." He looked grim, and took a moment to peer around the corner at the end of the corridor, so that he could see out into the hall. "The baron seems to be using them for something. It's as if he needs them to complete this, and he won't let them risk their lives." 

"I hope you're right." 

"So do I; but it's not as if we have any choice." He pulled her towards him for a quick, impulsive kiss, then let go of her and stepped away. "Shoot straight, Marion." 

"It's been a while." It hadn't been long since she had left the band, but archery was a skill that could grow rusty very quickly. He smiled at her. 

"Are you saying that you've forgotten?" 

"No." She answered his smile with one of her own, and raised her bow ready to shoot. "I haven't forgotten anything. I never will." 

"Good." He gave a brisk nod. "Then get ready." And with that he was gone. Marion hurried around the corner after him, waiting where there was some cover, watching his lithe form as he ran across the floor of the great hall. De Belleme was turning to face him, although he could not possibly have heard any sound of footsteps. Even though she was some distance away, Marion could see the unpleasant smile that took over the baron's face. 

"Well well well." He had a sword at his waist, but made no effort to draw it. "I knew that Robin Hood would come to me if I waited long enough, but I never expected that when he came he would be wearing your face. I was told to expect Robert of Huntingdon." 

"If I know him, he'll be along." Robin's expression was hard, for he fully hoped to have all of this dealt with before his replacement found this place. "You had something planned for him I take it?" 

"Him, you, what's the difference?" De Belleme was still smirking. "You know, before I wiped the Sheriff's mind, he told me that you were dead. I thought at the time that he was lying, but I couldn't see any reason why he should be. Tell me, were you restored to life with Herne's Silver Arrow just as I was?" 

"We share nothing in common, I assure you." Robin hefted Albion in his hand. "Now let's end this." 

"Oh I plan to. Your blood is all that I need to make my spell complete." De Belleme clicked his fingers and his three servants became to approach. Marion stepped out of the corridor, and levelled her bow. Robin smiled. 

"If you want my blood you'll have to spill it yourself. Now draw your sword." 

"You always were insufferable." De Belleme took a step back, watching his men close in - then let out a shout of rage when Marion's first arrow hit the ground just inches from John's feet. The big man slowed to a halt, staring at the baron in search of guidance. 

"She won't let them get anywhere near me." Robin's gaze had not left de Belleme. "If anybody is going to stop me, it'll have to be you. Now draw your sword." 

"You can't hope to beat me. I learnt sword-play before you were even dragged screaming into the world." De Belleme pulled his sword free, holding it up so that the weird lights from the burning pentagram reflected off its scarred surface. There were runes written on the blade, and Robin could read them without trying. Unpleasant verse, with unpleasant meaning. In his hand he felt Albion tingling. 

"One drop of blood, Hood. One drop of your blood spilt and my creature becomes flesh. The most powerful creature this world has ever seen, ready to suck the life and soul from every living thing that stands before it." The dark blade pointed straight at Robin's chest. "One drop, and there won't be a man or woman left alive in England who doesn't belong to me utterly." 

"Your magic risks the stability of Herne's forest." Robin pointed his own weapon at de Belleme, matching the other's stance. "You can spill as many drops of my blood as your sword can manage, but I won't let you give that creature life." 

"You won't have any say in the matter." With a sudden leap de Belleme came towards him, and Robin felt the power of his strength behind his blade. He winced, feeling the inactivity of the past two years in the bones of his wrist. Fortunately for him his body did not seem to have forgotten all that it had once done. Behind him another arrow rang against the stone as Marion dissuaded another attempt by the baron's servants to come to their master's aid. The shadowy demon creature hissed in response, and all the light in the room dimmed. Robin saw the diamonds begin to bubble, as though somehow they were beginning to melt. He wondered what it meant, and decided not to clutter his mind with such thinking. He had a battle to fight. 

"You can't win, Hood. And you won't." De Belleme's eyes were narrow. Robin smiled. How many times had he heard that, during the one short year of his time as the King of Sherwood Forest? 

"Maybe not." He wasn't expecting to come out of this in one piece. If truth be told he wasn't expecting to come out of it at all. "But by all the powers of Herne, and all the spirits of Sherwood Forest, neither will you." He slashed out again with his sword, and watched de Belleme fall back. "Now be quiet and fight me, baron. It's time to get this settled." 

********** 

It was a hideous building. Behind vast bushes of gorse that seemed to stretch up to the sky, the twisted, cracked building pointed its broken roofs into a permanent cover of grey cloud. The overgrown courtyard, a mass of poisonous plants and dead weeds, had the stench of death about it, as though every animal that crawled or flew through it had dropped dead somewhere in its midst. An overflowing well dribbled stagnant water onto a clump of mosses, turned black and rotten long ago. Robin stared upon it all, feeling his heart sink. Somehow a place like this sapped the spirit, and made any task seem impossible. 

"De Belleme is busy." Maybe it was his link with all that was Sherwood, but Robin could feel the unease in his mind. The unease of the spirits and ghosts and powers of the forest, as well as the tension and fear of the animals. Whatever the baron was about, it was already well underway. 

"We have to find him before we can kill him." Gisburne looked up at the large building. "I didn't go inside. I don't know where they're likely to be." 

"The main hall." Nasir sounded strained, although his fierce pride made him try to hide it. "They will all be there." 

"John and the others?" Robin wondered what part they played in de Belleme's conjurings. Nasir nodded, and Huntingdon returned the gesture. "Alright. Gisburne, they're your responsibility - and I mean John as well as the de Rainaults. Get them out of there. I'll handle de Belleme. Nasir, I need you to keep watch. Are you up to it?" His answer was a darkening of that expressive face, and a glitter of reproach in the bright eyes. He smiled. "I know. But I had to ask. While you're on watch, look out for..." His eyes drifted towards Gisburne, whose back, fortunately, was turned. "Look out for the others. If they're not here yet they'll be on their way. I'll feel better when I know that they're still alright." Nasir nodded again, and without another word he fitted an arrow to his bow and moved to search for likely cover. Gisburne watched him go. 

"Talkative fellow, isn't he." 

"Shut up Guy." Robin turned his attention back to the building before them. "Well, it shouldn't be too hard to find the main hall, if this place is built to the usual pattern. Are you ready?" 

"I'm always ready." The superior air was back in Gisburne's voice, but this time it was not quite matched by the glint in his eyes. "He's one man. One old man." 

"Hmm." Robin could still feel the worries of Herne troubling his mind, and he wished that he could share in Gisburne's confidence. "One old man with a lot of power." 

"Are you scared of him?" The disdain in Guy's voice was as clear an indication as any that he himself was terrified, even if he was too proud to show it. Robin nodded. 

"Yes. Aren't you?" Gisburne frowned, his haughty expression not softening in the slightest. 

"Of course not. If you've forgotten how to be a nobleman after all this time living amongst Wolfsheads in the forest, that's your own fault. But I'm not afraid of an old sorcerer." 

"Even one that returned from the dead?" Robin had heard the tales; the stories that the outlaws told around the campfire in the evenings in Sherwood Forest. Many of them revolved around the baron, and how Loxley had killed him with Herne's Silver Arrow. Gisburne looked uncomfortable. 

"What do you know about it? You've never even met the man." Irritable now, the knight pulled ahead, leaving Robin behind as he moved towards the building. Huntingdon rolled his eyes. There had to be a better way to do this. Why, in all of England, was there nobody else in a position to help him now save this insufferable man? He hoped that Fate at least found it funny. Pushed past the point of mere frustration he was about to say something unpleasant to Gisburne, but as though to quell the coming friction, a sound nearby distracted him. Suddenly alert, he lost all thought of his anger. 

"Somebody's coming." Gisburne heard the footsteps at the same time as Robin, and drew his sword with a flourish. Robin pushed him into the shadows by the wall. 

"There's no need to announce yourself. Keep quiet and maybe we can get in without anybody stopping us." His eyes travelled to the walls, where somewhere Nasir was hiding. He could see no sign of the Saracen, but knew that wherever he was he would already have levelled his bow. Gisburne struggled. 

"Don't presume to order me about, Huntingdon." He pushed off the other man's hold, and stepped away from the wall. "You may be the son of an Earl, but you're also an outlaw, and naturally of forfeited rank." 

"This isn't about rank." Robin drew his own sword, listening carefully. Two sets of footsteps, one light, one heavy. Servants of de Belleme? The heavier set of steps didn't sound like those of Little John, but the man was no longer himself. He certainly couldn't be expected to behave as he usually did. 

"I heard something." The voice that reached them was timid, and thick with a local accent. Robin smiled, at the same moment that Gisburne stepped forward to fight. 

"Get back you fool." Pushing the young knight back, Robin sheathed his sword. "Much? Is that you?" 

"Robin?" The young man came around the corner at a greatly increased speed, eyes bright and face full of smiles. "Robin, it's you! We thought you were demons or goblins or something, didn't we Tuck?" 

"Aye lad. Something like that." Also coming around the corner, Tuck clapped Robin on the shoulder, then blinked in surprise at the sight of Gisburne. "Um..." 

"Don't ask." Robin pushed the knight's sword away, for it was still levelled at the two newcomers. "Put it away, Gisburne." 

"What are they doing here?" Gisburne's eyes were narrow with suspicion. "How did they know to come here?" 

"We came with Robin." Much frowned then, apparently deciding that it wasn't a good idea to be so forward in the company of an enemy. "I mean--" 

"Never mind." Huntingdon gestured towards the big main door before them. "Has he already gone inside?" 

"Aye, and Marion with him." Tuck shook his head sorrowfully. "And John's in there too, although there's no telling what sort of state he's in. Maybe Will and Nasir as well." 

"Not Nasir. He's with us." Robin gestured towards the wall, where the dark-clad Saracen had appeared as if from nowhere, and was heading their way. "According to Sir Guy here, Will was left behind somewhere. He couldn't keep up, apparently." 

"Will?" Tuck turned to greet Nasir, and blinked in surprise at the obviously compromised strength of the younger man. "Good Heavens, Nasir. What happened to you?" 

"He had an argument with the guards at Nottingham Castle." Robin purposely did not look at Gisburne, although he didn't for a moment think that the other man would be the slightest bit ashamed. "It looks as if you've been having arguments of your own, Tuck." 

"Just a slight disagreement." Touching his head rather gingerly, Tuck smiled. "I don't think that you should be walking around though Nasir." 

"I am fine." The Saracen's voice was rather taut, for he did not appreciate having his weaknesses discussed. "Robin, listen." 

"Listen?" Robin cocked his head on one side, guessing that it was to the sounds of the manor that he was supposed to be paying attention. He thought, distantly, that he could hear the clashing of steel. "Swords?" 

"Robin went to challenge the baron." Tuck shook his head. "He thinks that he has to die to end this, Robin. I don't like to think that he's right." 

"Robin?" Gisburne looked from one to the other of them. "This is Robin, or so he likes to call himself these days." 

"I doubt that you're the only man alive called Guy." Robin's free hand travelled to the Silver Arrow, hidden within his clothing. "Alright, the plan stays as it was before. You others get back to what you were doing. Come on Gisburne." 

"Be careful Robin." Tuck shook his head as the second of Herne's Sons ran after the first. "He's as bad as the other one when he wants to be." 

"Why's he with Gisburne?" asked Much, his brow crinkled into a typically deep frown. Tuck glanced towards Nasir. Sometimes he wished that he wasn't alone in sharing Huntingdon's secret. 

"A necessary evil in a difficult time, lad, that's all. A common enemy will bring the unlikeliest of allies together." He saw the dark frown that passed across Nasir's face, and felt a burst of sympathy. "We'd better do as he said, and get back to our patrol. Nasir, are you sure you're--" 

"I am fine." The words were repeated with rather more force than before. Even so it was obvious that it was a lie, for the Saracen was not standing with anything like his usual poise. As he turned to walk away it was clear from his movements that he was stiff. Tuck wondered what had happened, and decided that he was probably happier not knowing. 

"We're not doing too well, are we Tuck." Some of Much's bright innocence had gone from his voice, and Tuck knew that the boy was terribly worried. "John and Will bewitched, and nobody knowing where Will is. Both Robins and Marion in there with nobody knowing what they're going to have to fight. You with your head hurt, and Nasir looking like he can hardly stand. Does that mean we're not going to win this time?" 

"We always win." Tuck hurried him off, eager to get back to watching the perimeter. "Good always wins in the end, Much. Men like the Baron de Belleme always lose. It's the nature of the world." 

"Oh." The boy nodded, apparently mollified. "Does that mean that Robin doesn't have to die?" 

"That's something that only the Good Lord knows." Tuck cast a last look back at the door through which he had seen three of his closest friends disappear. "In the meantime it's not for us to question." 

"That's because we wouldn't like the answer, isn't it." Much lowered his eyes. "It was nice to have him back." 

"Aye lad. It was." Tuck remembered his conversation with Loxley, back at the camp in Sherwood, when he had still suspected that his old friend might be some dangerous spirit. How wrong he had been. "But don't lose hope. None of us knows what's coming, Much. It could be that we're all in for a surprise." 

"I'm not sure that I like surprises." Much smiled at him, his eyes showing the bravery that he was trying to summon. "But I hope that you're right." 

"So do I, lad." Wishing that he knew what was happening inside the crumbling building, Tuck tried to clear his mind of worry, so that he could focus on the job he had been given to do. "So do I." 

********** 

One foot before the other, each step an agony, Will Scarlet followed in the path of his master. He could see nothing but burning pentagrams, and thought of nothing at all that made sense. Instinct alone told him which way to go, and he didn't feel the thick branches of the forest knocking into him, slapping into his face, tearing his skin. His breathing was becoming laboured, his ribs ablaze with pain, and with each step his head grew heavier. He was walking at a pace that shouldn't have been possible given his injuries, for it should hardly have been possible for him to walk at all. 

And yet walk he did, his sword now drawn, his confused mind boiling away beneath the surface. He needed de Belleme to take the pain away, to bring back the clarity of those first few minutes of enchantment, when there had been no problems at all - but de Belleme had left him behind. The baron was the only friend that he had; the only one that could stop the pain. Everybody else was an enemy. 

_Enemy_. It was the only word that really made sense to Will now. The only concept that he could truly grasp; anybody who was not Simon de Belleme must be his enemy. His enemies were Normans. His enemies were evil. His enemies were the people who had raped and murdered his wife. A different kind of pain flooded Will's mind, but he knew that it was just another thing that the baron could take away. He had to find de Belleme. 

And he had to kill anybody who stood in his way. 

********** 

Inside the great hall, Robin was in trouble. De Belleme's sword moved like a living thing; something with a mind of its own; and possessed all the speed and deadly accuracy of a striking snake. If he had not been fighting with the powerful sword of Herne, Robin knew that he would have fallen before now, and he thanked whichever power had brought the weapon to him. In his hand Albion felt strong and capable, and he blocked each blow as it came. There were close calls though, and he knew that it was only mere chance which had prevented de Belleme from drawing first blood. Behind him he was aware all the time of the three servants; his friend and his two enemies; all trying to get at him past Marion's arrows. She could not carry on for long, he knew that. He had given her his own arrows as well, but even so she would soon run out. What would happen then? He had not expected the fight to last so long, and had made no plans for having to fight four foes. Marion would come to his assistance, he knew; but she had never been as good with a sword as the others in the band, and would be at a disadvantage straight away. John had his quarter-staff, and was deadly enough with it even when fighting a person of equal height and strength, who was armed in the same way as himself. Marion would have little chance; and neither, given that he could not risk hurting John too badly, would Robin. He wondered if he could bring himself to use his sword to wound either de Rainault fatally, and had to conclude that he couldn't, which greatly increased his disadvantage. How could he kill them when they were bewitched? It would not be the right thing to do; and there was always a chance that, given their relative innocence, Albion would refuse to kill them anyway. 

"Your death will be quick, Hood." De Belleme's words were not the usual mad threats of an angry enemy, and Robin knew it. He heard fierce hissing from nearby, and knew that the creature born of the flaming pentagram was growing excited. In the corner of his eye he saw its mighty wings flap, as it tried to break free of whatever chains still held it. One drop of blood spilt, de Belleme had said. Robin wondered what the creature would look like when it was alive, and decided that he definitely didn't want to know. Behind him another arrow thudded into the ground, and he tried to remember how many Marion had already fired. How many could she have left? 

"You're tiring, Hood." De Belleme's voice had acquired a sing-song quality; something mocking and unpleasant. It didn't suit his smooth, pale face, but it seemed to fit the moment. He attacked again, and the shocks of his blows vibrated up Robin's sword arm. Again Albion came to his rescue, guiding his hand and giving him strength, but he knew that the sorcerer was right. He was tiring. His enemy's sword was slashing closer and closer, coming nearer and nearer to drawing that one drop of blood. Behind him he heard one more arrow strike the ground, and then the sound of running feet. Marion had loosed her last arrow, and was coming to join him. Nearby, hissing and growling as though sensing its coming victory, the great creature of shadow conjured by de Belleme began to rise and grow and beat its ethereal wings. 

"Marion!" Throwing a glance over his shoulder, Robin tried to manoeuvre the fight around so that he could see her properly. "Get out of here!" 

"You need my help." She was slashing almost blindly with her sword, trying to make all three of the servants back away. It seemed so strange so see her fighting John, but Robin couldn't think of such things. It was all that he could do to fight his own battle, without worrying about hers as well. Behind him the hell creature screamed and slashed the air with its talons, and he was sure that he could feel the breeze of the movement. Surely that meant that it was beginning to gain true substance? Boiling, bubbling diamonds splashed across his feet, and he heard echoing whispers of the spells of earlier. The goblet was burning with a fierce green flame. 

"Robin!" Marion's voice, high and loud. He didn't turn; forced himself not to; but heard the sound of her sword as it skittered away across the floor. A swish of a quarter-staff created a draught that he felt even as far away as he was, and Marion gave a cry. He swung then, seeing her stumble, seeing the great, towering creature that was not yet alive bend suddenly towards her. Its beak opened, and she threw up a hand to protect herself. De Belleme laughed. 

"Marion!" Not caring about anything else, throwing aside all thought of his opponent, Robin leapt instead towards his wife. Even as he moved he felt the sharp pain in his arm, and knew it for what it was. De Belleme's sword had cut him, and he felt the blood flow. One drop of it, flying free, splashed onto the flagstones at his feet. 

"Robin." Her face a ghostly white, Marion stared at the blood, then her eyes travelled upwards to the creature above them. Even as they watched it they could see the life growing within it; could see the substance forming where before there had been only mist. Its eyes flared in a burst of pure red flame, and for the first time its open beak showed signs of curved yellow teeth. De Belleme's laughter echoed in the room, and seeing nothing that he could do to save the situation, Robin grabbed Marion and held her close. She held him just as tightly in return. 

"Robin!" The voice came from nowhere; young and strong and unfamiliar. Robin turned his head. There was a figure standing at the end of the corridor, where Marion had been just a few moments before. He saw blond hair, and a bow upraised, and felt a surge of hope; then lost it again as the creature above him bellowed its birthing rage from a throat now whole and solid. Its wings tore at the air, and he felt the heat of its breath. 

"Robin..." Marion's voice was close to his ear, and he thought that she was calling him, but in a moment he saw that it was not him at all. She was addressing somebody else; the blond figure, standing so near but so far from them. He shook his head. 

"Get back!" Was Huntingdon a fool? The three servants of de Belleme was converging on the young man, and he was making no move against them. Instead he merely stood, bow ready, arrow held to its string. A glint of light reflected of the shaft, and Loxley frowned to see it shine. What kind of arrow shone? It must be a trick played by his eyes. He was still wondering as Huntingdon loosed the arrow, and it flew towards him. At the same moment John and the de Rainaults fell upon Huntingdon, bearing him to the ground in a tangle of arms and legs. Robin thought that he saw another man, equally blond, equally young, moving as though to help one side of the battle, but his attention was held by the arrow. It was beautiful; a shaft of burning silver, the air singing with its passage. The beast gave a howl and lashed out with its clawed feet, and Robin threw himself and Marion out of the way. They rolled across the floor, seeing nothing but a blur of cold stone and leaping flame, until with a blow from Albion as an anchor, Robin brught them to a halt. He looked back, seeing the Silver Arrow crash home into the centre of the burning pentagram. There was a flash of hot white light, a rush of air, and a scream so hideous that Robin felt his blood turn cold. Then there was nothing. 

"Robin? Marion?" Huntingdon was crouching beside them, although how he had managed to fight off his three attackers Loxley couldn't imagine. He stared up at the other man, and managed a faint smile. 

"The Silver Arrow? Inspired." 

"Inspired by Herne." Huntingdon returned the smile, at the same time reaching out to haul the duo to their feet. "He always seems to know what to do." 

"De Belleme." Marion was looking around. "Where is he?" 

"De Belleme? All that I could see was flame, and that - that creature." Huntingdon also looked around. "Where was he?" 

"Here, with us." Loxley sighed. "This can't be over until he's been dealt with." 

"For now I'm just glad that we're alive." Marion took Huntingdon's hand. "Thankyou Robin. How did you get free?" 

"Of John and the others?" Huntingdon's head lowered slightly, as though in faint shame, and he smiled at her. "I had a little help." 

"I wouldn't call it help." As ever Gisburne's voice was filled with hatred. "I'm only here to see that the Sheriff is safe, and that--" He broke off, and Loxley looked into wide, disbelieving eyes. "No. No, it can't--" 

"Gisburne." Robin's eyes burned. "If there was one good thing about being dead, it was not having to look at you again." 

"The feeling is mutual, I can assure you." Recovering his composure with admirable speed, the young steward let his voice return to its usual belligerent sneer. "Some vile black magic no doubt, created by that pagan myth you claim to serve." 

"No." Huntingdon's words might have seemed to be directed at Gisburne, but by the tone of his voice and the direction of his gaze it was clear that he meant them for Loxley. "No black magic. Just Sherwood looking after its own." 

"And that's supposed to be a suitable explanation? I'm not some damnable heathen, to believe talk of the forest as if it were alive." Disgust clear in his face, Gisburne turned away from them, anxious to hide the fear that he was sure must be clear in his face. Loxley, returned to life? Or perhaps never killed? He wondered if the Sheriff had ever really even seen the body, as he had claimed to. 

"We have more important things to worry about than whether or not you approve of our beliefs, Sir Guy," Loxley seemed to be listening to something. "I don't think the baron intends to let us leave after what we just did. We should get out of here while we still can. Listen." 

"Listen to what?" Guy turned his head this way and that. "I can't hear anything." 

"Well I can." Loxley had always had better hearing than most; a better awareness of the world around him. "Something is coming this way, and I don't think we want to be here when it arrives." 

"Then we'd better leave." Huntingdon's eyes travelled to John, slumped with the de Rainaults near the entrance to the hall. "What about them?" 

"We leave them. There isn't time." Robin sounded firm, but Huntingdon looked dubious. Gisburne sneered at him. 

"You're imagining things. This place has got to you, both of you. There's nothing to be afraid of here." Loxley rolled his eyes. 

"If you think that then you're a bigger fool than I always believed. _Listen_ Gisburne. Tell me that you don't hear a hundred reasons why we shouldn't waste our time here." 

"Nothing's coming." Gisburne cocked his head on one side. Far in the distance, as though from miles away, he could hear the sound of baying hounds. "Some local lord out hunting I'll warrant. You might be afraid of a man like that, but I have no need to be." 

"A local lord?" Huntingdon frowned. "That's not what that is. It's not hounds. It sounds more like wolves." 

"There aren't that many wolves in the whole of England." Gisburne folded his arms, looking as though he would not be moved whatever happened. "You're talking of running, when we should be going after the baron. He can't be allowed to get away with what he did to the Sheriff of Nottingham. The king's sovereignty has been directly--" 

"Damn it Gisburne, that isn't the sound of hounds! It isn't any pack of wolves from an English forest, and neither it is anything else from this world. Those are creatures sent after us by de Belleme, and if we don't get somewhere safe they'll tear us to pieces before you can finish protesting." 

"I won't leave John." Galvanised into action both by the tone of Robin's voice, and by the fierce barking that he could now hear clearly, Huntingdon ran to his fallen friend. Loxley joined him. 

"We probably only have a few moments," His tone was gentle. "The baron won't hurt his servants, so John and the others will be safe. We won't be." 

"And you're prepared to leave him?" Huntingdon was surprised, but of course he did not yet know Loxley very well. The first King of Sherwood smiled at him, and without another word seized hold of the big man and began to haul him up. Huntingdon grinned, catching hold of John's other arm. 

"I never realised he weighed so much." Gasping for breath he and Loxley began to manoeuvre the ungainly form back along the corridor that led to the main doors. "He weighs more than a cart horse." 

"Cowards!" Standing behind them, face pale now that he was beginning to believe in the danger, Guy of Gisburne was clearly furious. "I knew you'd want to leave the Sheriff behind! I came here to help you, and you're breaking our agreement." 

"I meant what I said, Guy." Loxley was not prepared to stand and argue, especially with a man like Gisburne. "He and the abbot won't be in any danger." 

"So you say." The knight turned away from them, struggling with the two unconscious men as the others disappeared. Weighed down by Little John, Loxley and Huntingdon were finding it hard to move with the speed that they both knew was necessary, and neither of them really had the energy left to worry about the Nottingham trio left behind. 

"Gisburne isn't going to leave them." Marion was running along next to Loxley, hanging back unnecessarily to try to offer her assistance to the beleaguered pair. The sound of baying and snarling was now so loud that it seemed they would soon be overwhelmed. "I think he's trying to carry both of them out of there." 

"He's a fool." Loxley seemed to remember that he was taking a similar risk for John, and sighed. "Perhaps I should go back to help him." 

"You can't. There no way that I can carry John on my own." Huntingdon was finding it difficult even with Loxley's help. His half brother in Herne flashed him a breathless smile. 

"I doubt anybody could." His mind was filled with the sudden vision of King Richard, the massive figure of Little John held impossibly high above his head. "Gisburne will come soon enough, when he sees what's on it's way. Marion, go on ahead." 

"I'm not leaving you. Any of you." Her voice was filled with that furious stubbornness that had annoyed him and delighted him so many times before. He glared at her. 

"Just run!" 

"Filthy cowards!" Back in the main hall, Gisburne was trying to drag the two de Rainaults after the departing outlaws. It was an impossible task to move both of them on his own, but he didn't feel that he could leave either. Behind him the barking was growing louder, and over the top of it he could now hear the sound of paws. His blood ran cold. 

"Confound you all!" Shouting his anger at the world in general, he let go of Hugo and used all of his strength to drag the Sheriff upright. Letting the oblivious man fall across his shoulders, he turned tail and ran, or tried to. He could manage little more than a stumble down the corridor, righteous anger powering him along. Up ahead he saw the two sons of Herne, and glimpsed the light that was beyond the main door. It was a long way to go, but the corridor was smooth and straight, and there were no obstacles in his path. He should make it. No sooner had he allowed himself this moment of optimism when a terrible roaring sound filled his ears. He looked back. 

Behind him the corridor was alive with slavering beasts. They looked like black wolves, but were far too big, their evident strength showing in the remarkable musculature of their shaggy, hideous bodies. Gisburne paled. 

"Good God." He took a step back, stumbled and nearly fell. The creatures seemed to bark with delight, bearing down upon him with a speed that seemed impossible. He looked up, and behind them, riding on a chariot pulled by a massive black horse, he saw the baron. Sparks flew from the metal wheels as they struck the stone of the floor and walls. Gisburne gulped, but he did not drop the Sheriff. Perhaps he hoped that de Rainault might reward him for such loyalty, or perhaps the loyalty was true and for its own sake. At any rate he staggered on, the weight across his shoulders slowing him down. Up ahead Huntingdon glanced back. 

"He's not going to make it." They were so close to the doors now. He had no idea why escaping from the manor should make a difference, but at least his friends were out there, and might be able to help. So close... It would be foolish to risk everything by going back now. 

"We can't go back for him." Loxley felt some sympathy for Gisburne - would have done so for any man who was about to be torn limb from limb by such beasts as were following them now - but the man was an enemy, and his main thought was for Marion. "Come on!" 

"Of course." Huntingdon watched the rectangle of light that was the exit as it loomed up ahead of them. He could see Tuck now, silhouetted there, his bow upraised. Behind him there was no sound of Gisburne anymore; just the creatures, and the sharp scraping of the chariot wheels. Unable to resist, he threw a glance back over his shoulder - just in time to see the young knight fall. 

"Keep going!" They were close enough to the exit now for Loxley and Marion to manage with John. That much he was sure of. He threw off John's arm, draped around his neck like a yoke, and turned back towards the fury that was following them. Loxley tried to grab hold of him. 

"Don't be a fool! You'll both be killed." 

"I hope not." Huntingdon shook his head. "But I can't leave him. I'm sorry." And with that he ran. Loxley shook his head. 

"Marion, help me." With her assistance he was able to run the rest of the way to the doors. Tuck helped as well, hauling John clear of the building, and towards the relative cover of a rotting cart that lay in the courtyard. The daylight was wonderful after the gloom of the building, but it was cold outside, and the sky was as grey as the roof of the main hall they had just left. It was hardly a scene of great encouragement. 

Back inside the building Huntingdon reached Gisburne almost as time ran out. The eyes that stared back at him were filled with hatred, but he ignored that, and with the greatest effort that he could summon, pulled the Sheriff from his half brother's stubborn grip, and let the unconscious form fall onto the floor. He hoped that Robin was right, and that the baron's creatures would not harm his servants, or he was going to feel rather guilty about this later - but there was no time to worry about such things now. Grabbing Gisburne's wrists, he hauled him to his feet. The sour breath of one of the wolf-like creatures blew hot upon his neck, and with a mighty pull that finally galvanised Gisburne into action, he broke into a run. The knight stumbled along beside him, the baying creatures chasing on at their heels. It seemed impossible that they would make it. In the rear the baron was laughing, the dogs were growing louder, louder -- 

And then suddenly they were bursting out into the daylight, and falling over the others, collapsing into the pitiful cover of the broken cart. A volley of arrows marked their safe arrival, and the first few creatures fell. Huntingdon gasped in relief. 

"That was... close." 

"Too close." Loxley pushed a bow into his hands. "Now shoot." 

"Right." He made it up onto one knee, the best position it seemed, and fired as best he could. Beside him Gisburne was adding his own arrows to the volley, showing all of his usual deadly skill. Tuck, Much and Marion were clustered beside the prone form of Little John, their own accuracy at least the equal of Gisburne's own. Tuck was pale, but the after-effects of his head injury didn't seem to be stopping him from shooting straight. Seconds later, into the midst of this slaughter of his slavering hell creatures, the Baron de Belleme rode forth, his hurtling chariot speeding out of the doors as though he too were being chased by something terrible. Standing beside him, quiet, still and noticeably unscathed, were the two brothers de Rainault. Nearby John began to stir. 

"Watch him." Anxious that his friend should not return to de Belleme's service, Loxley gestured towards the fallen outlaw. Tuck snatched up one of the water containers that they had brought with them from the camp, and with a tail end of his robe, washed the pentagram from John's chest. The big man mumbled and muttered in his sleep, but did not wake. 

By the gates, where he had been standing on watch, Nasir was viewing events with his usual calm detachment. He had joined his own arrows to those of his friends straight away, but the arrival of the baron gave him a different target. Felling one more of the wolf-like beasts, he turned his bow to point at the baron instead; and saw the man's deep, hard eyes staring straight back at him. He seemed to be challenging Nasir; daring him to make the shot. The Saracen's expression hardened, but he didn't fire yet. _Be sure_, his mind told him. _Be sure of the aim_. The baron was drawing his sword, and it was clear that his intention was revenge upon the people who had foiled his plans. If Nasir's arrow missed, that wicked looking weapon would be turned against his friends before he had a chance to fire again. De Belleme was laughing, at the tumult around him, at his own plans, at a hundred likely madnesses within him - but in the blink of an eye his expression changed, and he swept the chariot around. Nasir's fingers tensed on the bowstring, watching as the hated figure bore down upon the cart that was the outlaws' only shelter. Somebody shouted, somebody fired. The shot went wild. Nasir settled his aim - and at that moment he heard a footstep behind him. His muscles tensed, but his mind remained calm. He knew the options without needing to consider them. He could fire, or he could turn to meet whatever foe might be at his rear. He couldn't do both. Ahead of him the baron was sweeping down upon the cart, his horse and chariot providing too much cover for the outlaws to stand any chance of hitting him. There was no real choice to make. The huge curved sword raised itself high, Loxley and Marion inescapably in its path, and Nasir loosed his arrow. Not waiting to see where it had landed, he grabbed for another - but was not surprised when, before he could set it to the string, the sharp bite of a knife struck him hard in the back. The bow fell from his hands. 

"Nasir!" The voice was Much's, but Nasir barely heard it. He stumbled, trying to remain upright, waiting for a second blow that never came. Behind him Will Scarlet, bloodied knife upraised, caught sight of the Baron de Belleme and let out a shout of relief. Stumbling forward, pushing past Nasir, he tried to reach his lord and master. Nasir grabbed at him, tackling him in a fury of desperation. 

"Will!" The word was barely audible, for Nasir was losing strength fast. Not the type to allow such things to slow him, he ignored the pain and locked his powerful arms around the Englishman's neck. Will, also weakened by the injuries caused by Gisburne's guards, fought with the strength of the possessed. He tore free at last, staggering a few steps whilst barely remaining upright, then with a sudden burst of energy began to run towards de Belleme. The baron was not aware of him. Startled, though apparently not hurt by Nasir's arrow, he had dropped his sword, and was struggling to keep control of the huge horse. Neither de Rainault was of any use to him, and Will's plight was the last thing on his mind. Relying on the ferocity of his horse and the strength and number of his wolf-like beasts to keep the outlaws at bay, he swung the chariot around and set it towards the gates. Loxley and Huntingdon tried to stop him, but the chariot was too large, and the number of creatures to be fought still too great. The baron swept past them, sword left behind, casting furious curses about him as he went. 

"Tuck!" Seeing that the friar's position was relatively secure, and that he was not in any immediate danger from the creatures still attacking them, Loxley caught his attention and waved an arm to indicate the plight of Scarlet. He was still heading towards the baron, and now seemed in imminent danger of being crushed by the pounding wheels. Tuck's eyes widened. 

"Will, get back!" Hurrying as fast as he could, he ran towards the younger man. Scarlet paid him no attention, instead keeping his eyes fixed upon the baron. He was sure that, if he could just be reunited with the man who had enchanted him, all of his confusions and pains would disappear. His chest was on fire, his shoulders, arms and head a constant barrage of agonies. Every breath hurt him. There had been none of that at first, when the baron had chanted his verses and painted his symbols, and first directed Gisburne to free Scarlet from his chains. 

"Baron--" Will stumbled a few paces more, arms outstretched. Tuck made a grab for him, missed, and looked up for a terrifying second into the mocking face of de Belleme. He crossed himself, whispered a short prayer, and swinging his stick caught Scarlet a resounding blow on the back of the head. His friend toppled over and lay still, and Tuck, powered now by blind instinct, caught hold of him and dragged him out of the way. The chariot thundered past. 

"By 'eck!" Wiping the sweat from his brow, Tuck sat up, staring after the hurtling vehicle. He saw Nasir, lying face down on the ground right in the chariot's path, and his heart leapt into his throat - but the Saracen was aware of the danger, and rolled out of the way just in time. Over and over he spun, his path taking him at speed, until he crashed into the wall. De Belleme passed by. A few seconds later the last of the creatures chased after him, no longer concerned with the humans they had been summoned to kill. Loxley leant against the by now well broken cart, gasping in wretched exhaustion. 

"We should go after them, shouldn't we? They might kill innocent people." Marion was staring after the ungodly parade. Huntingdon shook his head. 

"Most of them were badly wounded. Mortally so I should think." 

"We should still get after them." Loxley raised his head, the fierce light of determination in his eyes. "De Belleme has to be stopped. _I_ have to stop him." 

"There's time for you to rest first, surely." Marion, as usual, was worried for him, and he smiled at her sadly. 

"Not really. I'd like to, for a while, but I can't risk it. He could get too far ahead, or disappear altogether. I can't let that happen." 

"I don't see why not." Restringing his bow, for it had been damaged during the fight, Huntingdon glanced up at him. "I know that you're not planning to win the fight, Robin. if you're that determined to die, why go after de Belleme at all? Why not just kill yourself here?" 

"It's not like that, and you know it. Do you think I want to die?" Infuriated Loxley turned away. "De Belleme is our enemy. He has to be stopped. If the prophecies of Herne and Gildas are right, my death is as important to the safety of Sherwood as is de Belleme's downfall. My death is perhaps the trigger for his end. I don't know. I have to find out." He drew in a deep breath. "Where's Much?" 

"Much?" Fear glanced through Marion as she looked around for the boy, then relief when she saw where he was. "Over there. With Nasir." It struck her then that the Saracen was not moving, and with a worried exclamation she hurried forth. Tuck looked up at her as she ran past him, startled by her speed and obvious concern, but he finished his task of washing the pentagram from Will's chest before he followed her. By then Loxley and Huntingdon had arrived as well. 

"Nasir?" Marion was crouched beside the fallen man, but as though considering her worry an insult, he was already trying to sit up. She moved to help him, and discovered the blood on his back. "What happened?" 

"It was Will." Much was almost in tears. "He didn't know what he was doing. Honest he didn't. He was bewitched, wasn't he Robin." 

"Of course he was." Answering in tandem the two Robins looked at each other awkwardly. Marion ignored them both. 

"How deep did the knife go?" Trusting Nasir to know, with his own knowledge of medicine and such like, she asked him the question direct. He shook his head. 

"Not... deep. The leather protects..." He tried to stand, but fell back with a mutter of something angry and Arabic. Huntingdon stilled him. 

"It's not just the knife wound," he said, conscious of the fierce stare Nasir was giving him. "He was already badly hurt. Will too as far as I can gather. They were interrogated by Gisburne's men." 

"Interrogated." Marion's voice was dark. "That man was always boasting about his interrogations." She cast a look back at the young knight that was so cold it might have turned him to stone had he seen it; but he was still over by the cart, examining the bodies of the fallen beasts. 

"What do we do?" asked Much. Tuck straightened up. 

"We find somewhere sheltered where the pair of them can rest. There's no point in trying to move them just yet, and I can't see there being any further danger here now. Marion and I can look after them." 

"Tuck, you're barely able to stay upright yourself." Loxley nodded. "I agree though. Marion, Much, you look after them. Tuck, you take it easy. Don't do anything too strenuous." He looked over at Huntingdon. "I'd appreciate it if you were to stay here as well, just in case something does happen. There might be more of these creatures, or the baron might come back. Gisburne... Well, perhaps he'll help." 

"He might." Huntingdon glanced back towards his hated half-brother, who needless to say was still managing to look sulky and furious. "You're going after de Belleme I take it?" 

"Yes." It was a calm decision, determined and certain. Loxley took Marion's hand for a moment, but she didn't meet his eyes, and he didn't know what exactly he was supposed to say to her. 

"Not alone, Robin." Much sounded as though he was going to volunteer to go as well, but Loxley smiled at him. 

"No, not alone - but you're needed here. John?" 

"Robin?" Clearly groggy, expression showing the fog that still filled his mind, the big man had come up behind them all. Despite his lingering confusion his face made no secret of his feelings for the man who had called his name. He might have had his doubts before about Loxley, but those doubts were now clearly dispelled. Loxley smiled at him. 

"Fancy a ride?" It was an innocuous question, given that it was an invitation to join what might well prove to be a one-way mission. John smiled broadly, and nodded his shaggy head. 

"Aye, Robin. I reckon I'd like that." The two old friends shared a moment's silent communication - then Robin nodded curtly and headed to the two horses brought in by Huntingdon and Gisburne. They were still waiting patiently, just beyond the gates, grazing on the rough and stringy grass. 

"Robin, wait!" Marion was staring after him, and he saw the tears rising in her eyes. It was the picture he had seen in his sleep; the dream that had been a vision of the future. Her face was a mask of anguish and pain, beseeching and desperate. He felt his heart cry out to her, but there was nothing that he could do. Everything that he had seen and heard since his return had pointed to the fact that he had to go now, and face the baron for a final time. What other choice was there? 

"Goodbye Marion." He was smiling at her in just the same, gentle way that he had smiled so many times before, in the too short year of their life together in the forest. She opened her mouth to say something to him in return, but whatever it was to have been they were never to know. Suddenly overcome she dropped to the ground. Tuck put a hand on her shoulder, but she didn't react to him. Loxley stared at her for a second more, then with a nod to John he turned and mounted one of the horses. 

"See you all soon." John raised a hand in a brief farewell, conscious that it might be forever, then climbed up onto the second animal. He was still dizzy, still sick, still angry following his release from the baron's spell, but such things did not slow a man like Little John. Thinking only of the revenge that would come with the baron's death, he swung the horse about and galloped off after his old friend. Those left behind stared after them. For a long time nobody spoke, and when at last somebody did, it was Marion. 

"We need to get Nasir and Will somewhere sheltered," she said, her voice low but steady. "There's rain coming, and wind too. One of these half ruined outbuildings perhaps." 

"Not inside." Huntingdon thought about the oppressive feel of the main building, and couldn't help feeling that de Belleme's spell was probably upon the whole place. She nodded her understanding. 

"Over here then. Beside this wall." It was the outside wall of a shed or stable that she was pointing them to; a place with the sounds of horses inside. The wall was leaning, providing adequate cover from the prevailing wind. Nasir made no objection when they half carried him over there, and Will was still unconscious. Marion checked him over with great concern. 

"Did I hit him too hard?" Tuck asked her. She smiled at him. 

"You did what you had to do. It's the other injuries I'm worried about. He's been walking around when he should have been lying down. He has several broken ribs, and I've heard of injuries like that causing other ones inside. There's sure to be a lot of bruising as well. As for Nasir..." She glanced back at the Saracen, who was clearly listening. "He's not much better. Less severe injuries perhaps, but he should still have been resting instead of wandering around the countryside. And that knife wound will take some healing." 

"It is... not bad." For somebody who was claiming to be only slightly injured, Nasir did not look at all well. Marion smiled at him. 

"I'm not saying it's life threatening necessarily - although if you don't mind I'll look at it properly before I decide that. I'm just saying that it needs looking after. I'm not doubting that you've probably been hurt worse before, but I'm the healer here." She looked at the blood on her hands, stained from her first cursory examination of his wound. "I just wish that I could concentrate properly." 

"You will. If anything needs to be done, you'll do it." Huntingdon had meant to be comforting, but Marion did not respond well to the sound of his voice. He understood. To her he was a reminder of the last time she had lost Loxley, and now that she faced losing him again, the last person that she wished to see was the man chosen to take his place. She managed a detached smile, which hurt him more than any physical blow, then turned her attention to Tuck. Now that the action was over, the friar's head injury was beginning to be more obvious. He had relaxed, and with that relaxation came the weaknesses that he couldn't hold back. He looked pale, and his familiarly cheery eyes had lost a good deal of their sparkle. She pressed him to sit down, close to Will, and sent Much to look for some herbs. There was little that she could do for Scarlet save ensure that he was kept comfortable, but the herbs might help Tuck, and perhaps Nasir. Gently she touched Will's head, and hoped that he would awaken soon. If he didn't, it might well be a sign that he would never recover. 

"Robin, could you light us a fire?" She felt bad about not quite looking at him as she spoke, but she knew that he would appreciate the chance to be useful. He nodded, and called to Gisburne to help. The young knight glared at him, but did as he was asked. Marion wondered how long he would stay. When would he turn his back and leave, and head for Nottingham Castle? He would probably bring soldiers back here, and she couldn't think about moving Will and Nasir yet. Perhaps she should suggest that he be tied up? And yet Huntingdon was speaking to him in almost friendly terms, almost as if he was trying to involve the man in all that was going on. It made her shudder to think it, but then Robin had always been the genial sort. 

For his part, Huntingdon was restless. Deeply so. The chance to build a fire gave him something to do for a few minutes; the company of Gisburne was something to distract him; somebody that he could argue with, who was more than happy to argue back. He wondered why the knight had remained, and had not chased after the baron. Scared? Weary? It probably didn't matter. Robin wondered what the upshot of this most peculiar alliance would be. How long before Gisburne was trying to kill him again? The infuriating man had not said anything about what had happened inside the manor, when Robin had saved his life. He hadn't even asked why Robin had done it. That didn't matter either. How could he ever tell the truth? How could he tell Guy that he had been unable to allow him to die, because in truth they were brothers? That would be ridiculous, and would probably the undoing of them all. So, secure in mutual antagonism, the brothers collected wood and built a fire, and watched the others around it. Much returned with the herbs, and Marion turned her attention towards making a healing potion from them, crushing and chopping, grinding and mixing. She didn't speak. Will didn't move. Tuck sat quietly, head tipped back against the wall, eyes closed. It was a scene of silence and stillness, filled with a very real sense of dejection. Only Gisburne was at all mobile, pacing up and down some distance away. He looked like he wanted to leave. Huntingdon hoped that he wouldn't. He had a plan that was forming in his mind... an idea that might well require the sort of help that right now only Gisburne was healthy enough to give. There was much to think about first, perhaps... much to talk about. Much to unravel in his mind. 

It was the gentle acceptance of his fate that Loxley had displayed, perhaps, or more likely it had been Marion's anguish, but Huntingdon found that he couldn't settle no matter how hard he tried. He had thought at first about helping Marion tend to Will, but the awkwardness between them was something that he wasn't sure how to handle. Marion knew that he loved her, but having Loxley return had changed everything between them. That wouldn't resolve itself quickly whether or not Herne's first son managed to survive this latest encounter, and the girl was too preoccupied to want to deal with her feelings now. Huntingdon decided to leave her to it, but it was too hard to do nothing at all. Tuck was tired out, clearly needing rest, and Much was tense and nervous. He wanted to be with Loxley, but didn't want to have to see him die. Marion was doing the best that she could to keep his mind off things, but it wasn't really working. He helped her in stops and starts, jumping at every noise, and clearly wasn't in the mood for conversation. Robin sighed. He needed to talk to somebody. His head was full of what ifs and maybes; ideas that wouldn't just go away. It was no use. He needed somebody who could help him to sort out the issue rolling around inside his brain; and if that somebody was half dead and should really be sleeping, it was just hard luck. Keeping an eye on Marion to be sure that she wasn't about to stop him, he went to crouch beside the apparently sleeping Nasir. It was a shock to see how pale the Saracen's usually dusky skin now was, and if he hadn't been desperate he would probably not have stopped to talk to him at all. 

"Nasir?" His friend's dark eyes opened immediately, although he wasn't expecting an answer. The faintly arched eyebrow was, as always, as vocal a response as he was likely to get. In all honesty he doubted that it was a good idea for the Saracen to be talking anyway, given his condition; but even Nasir couldn't answer every question with a change of expression. Huntingdon smiled at his friend, and wondered how best to phrase all that he wanted to say. He lowered his voice. 

"Naz, listen. I know you should be asleep, but there's something I want to know. Something that I might have to do. Are you up to a conversation?" The nod as an answer was entirely expected of course, for Nasir would have to be dead before he admitted to being incapable of doing anything. "Good. I was wondering... Listen, if I was Robin of Sherwood..." 

"You are Robin of Sherwood." Nasir's accent sounded thicker than usual. Robin frowned, then shrugged. 

"_Loxley_ then. If I were Robin of _Loxley_. Would that be better?" The answer was a puzzled frown, and he sought a better explanation. "The others. You. Marion. Would you prefer it? Would it be better if he had never gone away, and I had never joined you?" 

"But you did." Such speculation was not Nasir's way, and Robin should have guessed that. He sighed. 

"You know what I mean. You'd go anywhere for Robin, and you know it. Do anything for him. You all would. Everything's changed now that he's come back." 

"Yes." Nasir fell silent, thinking his own thoughts. It was true; he would, and had, follow Loxley anywhere. He remembered King Richard, who had shown from the beginning that any friendship offered to Robin was not to be extended to the Saracen. Nasir had followed Robin to Nottingham anyway, in answer to Richard's invitation; but then he had followed Huntingdon into plenty of dangers as well. He shifted his position awkwardly, and let his eyes drift towards Will Scarlet, unconscious and possibly near to death. Scarlet's plain talking would put Huntingdon's fears at rest, if he were conscious. Nasir himself didn't know what to say. He saw the flicker of uncertainty in Robin's eyes at the one word answer he had just received, and found a reassuring expression to use in place of his frown. 

"Robin... you lead. You are... Herne's Son." 

"I know." Huntingdon couldn't keep his mind from Loxley, supposedly riding to his doom right now. It didn't seem right that he himself should be back here, waiting to take up a dead man's mantle once again. This ragged band, sorry looking now, and much depleted in strength, surely deserved to keep the leader that had brought them together in the first place? "But so's he. I saw it in your eyes when you looked at him. I don't need to even ask what Much and Marion think, and Tuck's made his feelings plain. John couldn't wait to go off with him, and if you'd been able to..." 

"I would have gone." Nasir's eyes narrowed. "He was more than... the leader. I was a slave. He ended that." His voice was losing strength, and it was obvious that he should no longer be talking; and yet with typical determination he was speaking more now that Robin ever remembered him doing before. The outlaw leader nodded his head, decisions already confirming themselves in his mind. 

"I understand. You owe him. That's fair enough." 

"And you... Robin." The dark eyes closed for a moment, and as if reacting to the pain that she couldn't possibly have seen or heard, Marion glanced in their direction. Her nursing instincts must have been given some warning, for she frowned at Robin, and gestured that he should leave Nasir alone. He nodded, but didn't move away. There was still something that he wanted to ask. 

"Me?" 

"Remember... Owen of Clun." The eyes opened again. "But this isn't... about debt, Robin. It never was, for... any of us. It is... something more." 

"Maybe it is." He felt better, without quite knowing why. "Nasir? Have you ever felt that there was something you had to do?" The answer was a smile, and he smiled back. "Alright, that was a stupid question I suppose. We've all felt like that. It's just... just look at her. Marion I mean. I'd do anything for her, you know that?" A nod, stiff and clearly painful. Robin was beginning to feel bad about keeping the man from resting, but he needed to talk to somebody. Who else was there? Gisburne was sulking, and was hardly the right person to speak to anyway. Much, Marion, Tuck - they would all try to stop him. No matter how much they loved Loxley, they would try to stop him. Nasir at least might understand. 

"I've been thinking. The prophecy that said that the one who dies must be the one who's already been dead. Well that's Herne's Son, Robin of Sherwood. And _I'm_ Robin of Sherwood. _I'm_ Herne's Son. Why does it have to be _Loxley_ who dies?" There was no answer at all this time, and for a moment he thought that Nasir might have lost consciousness; then the dark eyes opened and focused on him once again. The Saracen's expression was empty though, and Robin could not read anything in it. "You understand what I'm saying?" 

"Yes." Nasir's eyes narrowed. It was not for him to dissuade somebody from taking the path they believed was right for them, but he didn't like the idea. Robin looked away for a moment. 

"I think it'll work out for the better," he said in the end, in a tone of voice that clearly said he was not looking for reassurances or denials. "For Marion, if nothing else. I... I need to know if you've any idea where the baron might be heading for. It's a long shot I know, but you knew him once. If I'm to find him before Loxley I'll need a head start." 

"I don't know." A deep frown passed across Nasir's face as he tried to think. "He was... not well known to me. But perhaps..." 

"You know of somewhere?" His friend nodded, though slowly and without much conviction. 

"A church. Ruined. To the south west, beside another forest. Follow... Roman road..." He broke off with a cough, which was clearly painful. Robin gestured for him to be silent. 

"Thankyou. I appreciate it. If I can get there before Loxley does... well I'll be glad, that's all. Very glad." 

"There is a chance." Nasir stared up at the sky. "You are... the better horseman. His horse... was not rested. But to go alone..." He struggled as though to sit up, but Robin held him down. 

"Don't be a fool. You wouldn't make it ten paces - and don't tell me that you won't have to if I'm going on horseback." His eyes flicked once again across the other people who were with him, settling finally upon Gisburne. "I'll take somebody with me." 

"_Gisburne_." It sounded more like a curse than a name. "Why?" 

"Because..." Because why exactly? Because he needed somebody, and for some reason he was beginning to trust the twisted Norman bully? Perhaps a man was always supposed to ride to his death with his brother by his side. "Because there's nobody else. Besides, he wants the baron dealt with just as much as we do, and he's good with his sword. He can probably out-ride any of us." 

"Gisburne." This time it was more of a mutter of disgust, but the hatred was just as clear as before. "Watch... your back. Remember... you do not have... Albion." 

"No, but I've got a perfectly good sword instead." Huntingdon clapped him on the shoulder. "You'd better rest now. Do what Marion tells you. I've got somewhere to be." 

"Robert--" He paused, surprised, not sure that Nasir had ever called him that before. 

"What?" 

"Just..." The eyebrows moved, and the expression changed. Robin smiled, remembering the many times that such flickers of expression had been the only contribution the quiet Saracen had made to a conversation. "Just... good luck." 

"Thankyou." He smiled again, more broadly this time, and cast his eyes about once more. Nobody was looking his way. He wished that he could say goodbye to them, and particularly to Marion; but to do so would only cause trouble. He had decided what he was going to do, and now it was time to go and do it. He called to Gisburne. 

"What is it?" The haughty knight was not in the mood for small talk, or for being called into discussions with his enemy. Huntingdon beamed at him, enjoying the fact that his just being friendly annoyed the man so much. 

"Come on." He picked up his bow and slung it over his shoulder. "We're going on a little ride." 

"Don't go far, Robin." Tuck's words were a bright little warning. Robin nodded at him. Not far, no. Just as far as it took. 

"Where to?" Gisburne was spoiling for a fight. Perhaps that was a good thing. Huntingdon smiled grimly, and knew that Guy would get his answer from that. 

"Are you with me?" It was the stupidest of questions to ask a man who would cheerfully take his head without a thought, but Gisburne, for once, didn't seem too hostile towards him. He nodded. 

"Yes. For now. But only for now." 

"Now might be all that we've got." Robin let the knight lead the way to the stables, wondering all the while if somebody somewhere; some heavenly power or forest spirit; thought that this was funny. Funny or fitting. Here he was, riding into battle with his older brother - but nobody knew it save him, and his brother hated him with a passion. He was going with the intention of giving his life for another man with whom he also shared a father; a man that he didn't know, and had barely spoken to. Such was the world of Herne. 

"Where are they going?" Much looked up as the two men rode away; a strange pair, with their blond heads held high as though in partnership - and a thick air of animosity hanging between them. Tuck frowned. 

"A ride, Robin said. Although why he'd choose to go with Gisburne..." He looked back to Marion, surprised by the pinched look that had suddenly taken over her face. "Marion?" 

"Oh Robin..." She pushed past the monk, apparently about to chase after Huntingdon on foot, but in the end merely ran to Nasir. "Nasir... Tell me he hasn't gone after Robin." There was no answer, but the dark eyes raised to hers were full of meaning. She couldn't stop a sob breaking free from her throat. 

"What is it?" Tuck was crouching beside her, his arms on her shoulders. She leant against him. 

"He's gone. He's gone after Robin, and now I'm going to lose them both." She shook her head, trying to stop the tears. "He's going to try to take Robin's place." 

"He wouldn't be such a fool." Even as he said it Tuck knew that Marion's suspicions were right. Of course it was what Huntingdon had done. A last gesture; perhaps the only gesture that he could make for Marion now that he knew she would never be his. The monk turned his head, looking after their vanishing leader, wondering what both of Herne's Sons were about to face. Whatever it was, he knew that it wouldn't be an easy challenge for either of them. He wondered if he should ride after them, but knew that to do so would be foolish. His head injury had slowed him down, and the mere act of moving sedately about was leaving him dizzy and sick. He looked down at Nasir, seeing his own helplessness mirrored in the other man's eyes, and in the end had to look away. Marion was crying openly now, and nearby Will Scarlet was beginning to stir. Tuck wondered what they would tell him, and wished that they didn't have to tell him anything at all. 

"Will we see Robin again?" Much's voice was quiet and uncertain, making him sound more like the boy he had used to be, rather than the man he had recently become. Tuck couldn't answer, but Nasir did, although fatigue made his accent twice as thick as normal. 

"If Allah wills it, it shall be." They were strangely comforting words, even if they didn't really help. Tuck nodded slowly, acknowledging the wisdom of the simple sentence, but Nasir didn't see him. Strength finally spent, he had drifted off into unconsciousness. Such was his stillness and silence, and such the new atmosphere of sorrow, any onlooker would have imagined him to be dead. 

********** 


	4. Four

John and Robin had started off at speed, but they had not gone terribly far before it became clear that at least one of the horses was not up to it. Whilst they had only been walked to the manor, and not ridden, they were still tired, and the one that Nasir had stolen from Nottingham Castle had clearly not been well looked after by its previous owner. Consequently the pace became much slower, until before long they were barely averaging much more than a trot. Robin glanced skyward, trying to gauge how much time had passed since de Belleme's escape, and tried not to look too frustrated. 

"The trail's still clear, Robin. We won't lose him." John was recovering his senses well, and was finding that he could think clearly again now. It was a familiar feeling - the awakening as if from a deep, heavy sleep. He had hoped never to know it again. 

"It's going to rain." Robin was watching the approaching dark clouds with trepidation. "If it's as heavy as it looks like it's going to be, we won't be able to tell which way he's gone." 

"And you don't think that Herne might help out there?" John smiled at him. "Don't worry Robin. If we really are supposed to find him, I'm sure that we will. We both know how it works in cases like these. Herne lets us know what we need to know." 

"Yes, and not a whole lot else." Robin managed to dredge up a smile of his own in reply. "Look, I appreciate your being here. Really." 

"I know." John fell silent for a few moments, then glanced towards his leader once again. "Robin? I... I just wanted to say sorry. For doubting you." 

"There's no reason to apologise, John. _I_ doubted me, and if I couldn't be sure of myself, there's no reason why you should feel any differently. What changed your mind?" 

"I don't know. It's hard to say exactly." He remembered the moment of waking, when all the thoughts that had been locked away inside him by the baron's spell had suddenly and at once been set free. It had been a deluge of astounding clarity, and he had know then, somehow, that Robin of Loxley was not the conjuring of some madman or evil sorcerer. He shrugged his powerful shoulders. "So what convinced you?" 

"Herne." Robin remembered that meeting, and the relief it had awoken in him. The feeling of being allowed back into the fold. "We talked. It felt just like before." 

"Except this time he told you that you have to die." John's face was very serious, although his voice retained a note of gentle humour. Robin frowned. Even after all this time, he knew John well enough to be sure that there was some meaning to his words. John's eyes softened. 

"It's just strange, Robin, that's all. He's your father. Why is he so quick to tell you that you have to die?" 

"Because some things are necessary." Robin remembered the words of the prophecy. It had made sense, even if it had been hard to listen to. "I was supposed to die before, and I didn't. That threw things into disarray. It's not so bad, really you know. Not so tragic. I was ready for it once before, and it never came." 

"And that's it, I suppose." John whistled softly. "I hope I can be so calm about it, when the time comes. You're a brave man, Robin." 

"I don't feel brave. I don't want to do this, you know. I'd much rather be with Marion, and the rest of you. Living in Sherwood, just like before, with all the fun and the games, and the wine we used to steal from the traders. But this is my responsibility. You didn't see, John, how close he was. The baron. This... this _thing_ that he summoned, straight from hell. It was horrific, and it was so nearly born. I don't know if he'd have been able to do that, if things hadn't been so unbalanced by me. By the fact that I didn't die." He took a deep breath, and absently stroked his horse's head. "My death was written a long time ago; predicted, by Gildas. His prophecies have always been supported by Herne. Why should this one be any different?" 

"Gildas?" Like all the outlaws, John was aware of the supposed importance of that most highly regarded of prophets. Gildas had predicted the coming of the Hooded Man, after all, as well as lots more besides. "Even prophets make mistakes, Robin. Gildas never claimed to be infallible." 

"Neither did Herne, but we've always taken his lead. We always trust him to know what's best, what's right. This makes sense to me. A life was needed, and wasn't given." 

"Balance, Fate, I don't know." John shook his head. "That was always your department Robin, and I can't claim to know half as much about it as you do. You're the son of Herne, and that seems to come with an understanding of mysticism and magic that the rest of us can't hope to keep up with. But that doesn't mean that you're always right, any more than Herne is or Gildas. Nobody can know that much about what's going to happen." 

"If you're trying to tell me that you're not going to stand back and let me die, I appreciate it. I never expected anything else. I just want you to understand why I'm doing this. Why I feel that it has to be _me_ who goes to face de Belleme, and why I'm so sure that I'm not going to be going home to Sherwood again. I don't want to die, and I'm not going to throw my life away. Why else would I have asked you to come along and help? I'm not going to _let_ him kill me." 

"I'm glad to hear it." They shared a smile, although the moment was somewhat strained. "So what did Gildas say this time? That the Hooded Man was going to die for the good of us all?" 

"Nothing that clear. You know what his writings are like." Robin could still hear them resounding inside his head, and he spoke them aloud with a detached air, as though they were words of little importance, written about somebody else. "_One must again be dead_. It makes sense." 

"I suppose so." John was frowning, staring at the road ahead. A faint rain was beginning to fall, and promised to become much heavier soon. It had brought the sky closer, lower, heavier. It wasn't helping his mood. "But you were never dead, were you. How can you have been, since you're here now?" 

"You're splitting straws. Okay, I wasn't dead. Herne said that I was taken by the spirits of Sherwood. They must have healed me, although either it took them a long time, or they didn't want me to leave them until now. Either way, I might as well have been dead. I don't remember that time at all." 

"But you weren't actually dead." John nudged his horse to go a little faster, for Robin was drawing ahead. The former leader of the outlaw gang had the determined look on his face that meant no rest, no waiting, no hesitations, until he had got where he was planning to go. "If you never died, why would you be the one that has to die again? How _can_ you die again?" 

"John..." Robin fell silent, searching for the words that would allow him to explain. "I was supposed to--" 

"So you said. You were supposed to die two years ago, and you didn't. You think that's got something to do with why de Belleme is able to tap into such powers now." 

"It created an unbalance. These things can lead to greater chaos. Men like de Belleme, able to do greater and greater things, because the universe is no longer in harmony. You know that nature calls for balance." 

"If that's the way that Herne speaks, no wonder you and Robin always look so confused when you've finished talking with him." John flashed his old friend a smile. "Just think about it, that's all I'm asking. You say that somebody has to die, who was dead before. Well de Belleme was dead before, and is alive again now. Why can't the prophecy be about him instead? He's a powerful man, so surely he'd be a suitable sacrifice, if that's what you want to call it." 

"De Belleme?" Robin was silent for a while, riding onwards with his head bowed in thought. "I hadn't thought of that." 

"But you admit that it makes sense?" 

"I suppose so. He did die, admittedly. But Herne..." 

"Herne never says anything that direct. He might not speak to me, Robin, but that much I do know. And even if he had told you that you were the one who had to die, well you've said yourself that he's never claimed to be infallible. He's just a man, whatever force, or power, or god he might represent. All men make mistakes, and that includes him, and Gildas... and you." 

"Point taken." Robin smiled, mulling the idea over in his mind. De Belleme? It did fit, in a way. Robin himself had been chosen once because of the strength within him of the powers of light and darkness, but those powers were just as strong within the baron. The only difference was that he had only ever used the darkness, rather than the light. 

"Then you'll consider it." John reined in his horse, reaching out to catch hold of the bridle of Robin's own mount. "Promise me, Robin. Don't go in there expecting to die." 

"I promise." He didn't feel as though he had got a reprieve - not yet. But it was certainly something to consider. Could it be the baron who had to die, and not him? Could it be that he still had a future in Sherwood Forest, with Marion and all of his friends? The more that he thought about it, the more likely it seemed to become. The one who had already been dead. The one who was at the centre of this current wave of darkness. He couldn't deny that it made sense. Maybe this wasn't the end for him after all. 

********** 

Huntingdon reined in his horse as soon as saw that the trees were thinning out. Before the animal had stopped he dismounted, leading it slowly to the edge of the forest, staring out into the dull, wet world beyond. The heavy rain made it difficult to see far ahead, and he knew that it would be impossible to tell whether anybody was watching for signs of pursuit. Gisburne stared down at him, contemptuous as always. 

"I doubt he's expecting anybody to follow him. We could probably just ride straight up and attack him." 

"You never wonder why my men keep beating you, do you." Managing not to sigh and roll his eyes, no matter how much he wanted to, Huntingdon turned his back on his half brother. He could see the ruined church now, standing just as he had imagined it to, in the midst of clasping undergrowth and twisted bushes. Several of the beasts that de Belleme had summoned lay around outside, like guard dogs watching out for thieves and raiders. Gisburne finally deigned to dismount, tethering his horse to a nearby tree. 

"I can shoot those dogs before they know we're here." It was a shameless boast, but Huntingdon did not doubt that he believed it was the truth. He nodded. 

"Perhaps, but we'll take two each. Shoot clean. They mustn't make a noise." 

"They won't." Sounding grim, Gisburne unslung his bow and fitted an arrow to it. "We should get a little closer. My bow doesn't have the range of your Saxon monstrosity." 

"You really can be a snob at times, you know that?" Moving away before the knight could reply, Huntingdon slipped silently out of the trees, running at a crouch to a better position, rather closer to the church. One of the great beasts moved slightly, but it gave to sign of having heard him. Rain was a useful camouflage for unexpected noises, and he was glad for that even if the constant deluge was a hindrance in other ways. A few moments later Gisburne arrived. 

"I don't see what's wrong with disapproving of long bows." He looked flushed from the awkward dash, for he wasn't used to moving so fast or so quietly. "They're the weapons of peasants and poachers, and they have no place in the armoury of a gentleman." 

"They do if the gentleman wants to be able to shoot over long distances, or stand a chance of killing a man protected by decent armour and shielding." Realising that he was allowing himself to be drawn into a pointless argument, Robin scowled and gestured towards the beasts nearby. "Take the two on the left." 

"Ghastly creatures, aren't they." Gisburne levelled his bow. "Nearly got us earlier. I, er..." 

"I didn't save you so that you could thank me. Especially not now." Robin sighted along his arrow, hoping that de Belleme was not yet aware of them. He wondered what the sorcerer was doing inside the church, and whether he had already begun new magics. 

"Well if that's the way you feel." For a second Gisburne looked hot and angry, then his face went back to its usual sulky expression, and the haughtiness returned to his eyes. "What do we do when we've killed these creatures?" 

"Get inside. I'll handle de Belleme, you worry about the Sheriff and Abbot Hugo. If the baron tries to use spells, you'll have to get them to safety. I won't be able to help you." 

"I don't need your help." Gisburne gave a brisk nod. "Alright, we'll follow your plan. Just remember that the baron might turn out to be more than you can handle. Being the son of a pagan legend doesn't make you invincible you know." 

Huntingdon couldn't help smiling. "Does that mean that you're worried about me?" His answer was a glare so ferocious that the smile might have faded from his lips, had he been a man of a more nervous disposition. So much for the idea that two brothers might find common ground through a shared purpose. Gisburne gestured at the animals still lying so close by. 

"Are we going to kill these creatures or aren't we?" 

"I suppose we are." He felt strangely guilty about it, even though the beasts were creatures straight from hell. Killing the unwary was never the best way to feel good about one's self. He checked his aim. 

"Ready when you are." 

"Then fire." Gisburne's shoulders tensed, and Huntingdon reacted likewise. At the same moment they loosed their first arrows. Without a sound, two beasts keeled over, but there was no chance for the two men to celebrate. Snatching up a second arrow, Robin fired it after the first, less than a heartbeat before Gisburne did the same. In the act of rising, the second two beasts also rolled over. 

"He might know what's just happened." Slinging his bow back on his shoulder, Robin started forward again. "We should get inside quickly." 

"If you say so." Guy followed at a crouch, his movements mirroring Robin's own. They looked like brothers at that moment, and Huntingdon was acutely aware of it. Perhaps it was no small wonder that Guy had been able to shake off de Belleme's spells, when he shared the blood of one of Herne's Sons. For a moment Robin wished that he could say as much, and tell the knight of their connection. It seemed as good a time as any, if he was to die soon. He didn't say a word. Even if this had been the right time; even if there had been a proper opportunity, he knew that he still couldn't do it. Gisburne would never find out the truth by his actions. The arrogant knight probably wouldn't believe it anyway. Would anyone? 

"I can't see anybody." Peering in through a window hole, Gisburne was trying to see something of use in the interior of the building. Huntingdon chose another window. Inside there was a darkness that was far too complete for a place that didn't have a roof, let alone proper walls. Why wasn't the daylight illuminating it? He decided that he probably didn't want to know. 

"Maybe they're in the crypt." Where else would de Belleme be? It seemed the ideal place to look for him. Gisburne made a face. 

"Great. And now I suppose you're going to say that he probably knows we're out here?" 

"He probably expected somebody to come after him, yes." Robin drew his sword, surprised momentarily by the difference of its weight to the weapon that he had become used to. It wasn't Albion of course, and his fingers closed more tightly around the hilt at that thought. Of course it wasn't Albion; Albion was elsewhere, with another man. Herne had obviously thought that Loxley needed it, which seemed to Huntingdon to be proof that he was doing the right thing now. He could come here, and he could fight de Belleme, and he could die with the knowledge that the sword was safe. If de Belleme survived, or any of his summoned minions, they would not get their hands on Albion. 

"That's a good sword." Gisburne had drawn his own, a typically expensive Norman model, presumably a family heirloom. Huntingdon nodded. 

"It is." Presumably Nasir had managed to steal it from the one guard in Nottingham who actually cared something for his weaponry. Odd that a Norman guard would have a Saxon sword, but then Fate had a way of working out like that. He smiled, and gave the blade a quick polish on his sleeve. "So are you ready?" 

"Yes." Gisburne led the way to the door, a rotting chunk of wood hanging by one hinge. "If we survive this, Huntingdon..." 

"What?" 

"I just want you to know that I don't feel indebted to you. You might have saved my life earlier today, but it was nothing compared to the lives that you've taken since joining with Herne's rabble. You've turned against everything that people like us are supposed to stand for, and there's nothing in this world or the next that could ever make me forgive you for that. Just so we're clear." 

"Oh we're clear. We're very clear." So much for the chance of getting to know his brother better; of maybe lessening a little of the hostility. "If we survive this, you'll try to kill me." 

"Not today, no. I'll let you walk out of here. I'll get the Sheriff and his brother back to Nottingham, and see that they're safe. And then I'll come after you, just like before. Nothing changes." 

"Nothing ever changes with you." He smiled, though it was not with much humour. "I understand." 

"Good." Gisburne switched his sword to his left hand, then held out his right. "Then perhaps you'll shake my hand, before we go in there. You could have made a good soldier, Huntingdon." 

"Thankyou." It wasn't much of a compliment to a man of Robin's beliefs, but he understood the context in which it was meant. Shaking his half brother's hand, he matched the other's smile with his own. "But I won't say that we could have been friends." 

"I don't expect that we ever could have been, no." Gisburne took his hand away, and crossed over the threshold into the darkened church. "They say that Huntingdon blood has always been bad. Now how do you suppose we get into the crypt?" 

"Look for steps I suppose." Letting the comment about Huntingdon lineage pass unremarked upon, Robin followed his brother into the darkness. Inside the church it was almost impossible to make out any features, save the altar at the far end. It looked as though it had been struck by lightening. 

"Why is it so confoundedly dark?" Tilting his head back, Gisburne tried to search for some light. He could see straight through the rafters, towards a sky that was lit by a pale, wintry sun, but no light nor rain managed to get into the church. It was dark enough inside, even in the daytime, for bats to be fluttering and squeaking. A rat ran across Robin's foot. 

"Don't worry about the light. Just worry about de Belleme. And keep your voice down!" Using his sword the way he had seen blind men use their sticks, poking and sweeping the ground ahead of him to look for obstacles, Robin tried to find a safe path across the church floor. Gisburne followed suit, making rather too much noise. 

"There's no need for you to try to sneak in, gentlemen." The voice startled them both so much that they jumped violently. Gisburne nearly dropped his sword, shocked by the familiarity of the voice as much as by its unexpected arrival. 

"My lord Sheriff!" He hadn't heard the other man speak more than a few words since his enchantment by the baron, and it seemed hopeful to hear him now. A low laugh came in answer, and Robin threw out an arm to stop Gisburne rushing forward. 

"He's not himself. Keep back." Gisburne glared at him. 

"He sounds it. You're not the expert on these matters that you like to think you are." 

"He's right you know, Gisburne." The mockery in de Rainault's voice was so very much like he was used to that he frowned in surprise and confusion at it now. "I'm still very much under the baron's control. And it feels... _wonderful_!" 

"My lord, you don't know what you're saying. We're here to help you, and--" 

"You're here to help yourself, as usual Gisburne." Feet clicked on the floor as the Sheriff walked towards them, and seconds later they were able to see him at last. Only because their eyes had adjusted to the gloom were they able to pick out any real details of his appearance, but it certainly seemed that he had been telling the truth. He clearly was not himself. His hair was matted, he was in need of a shave, and his clothes were far more dirty than he would ever usually allow them to be. Although his smile was familiar, from the mocking humour to the suggestion of malice, his eyes were hot and unnaturally bright. His clothes had been torn, probably during the stampede of the hell creatures back at the manor, and the pentagram was visible now, glowing softly with an eerie red light. 

"The baron is expecting you. He doesn't want you to throw down your swords, or surrender especially. I think he's appreciating the chance of a fight." He gestured off into the darkness, presumably towards the place where de Belleme had hidden himself. "Please don't keep him waiting." 

"I don't plan to." Stalking past, the hairs on the back of his neck standing straight up and quivering, Huntingdon peered ahead into the gloom. He could see steps now, just past the ruined altar, surrounded by a broken railing covered with fungal growth. The steps were of stone, already well worn, and faintly slippery beneath his boots. 

"Loxley?" The voice below was the baron's, and Huntingdon smiled grimly. Then he had reached this place first. That at least was cause for some feeling of triumph, whatever was to come next. He ran a hand through his damp hair, pushing it out of his eyes, and carried on down the steps. 

"No, not Loxley. Huntingdon. Disappointed?" 

"Not really." There was a burst of low light, and suddenly the flickering of many tiny candle flames illuminated the room. Somehow the place looked more menacing now than when dark, but Huntingdon did not hesitate in going down the rest of the steps. He looked about, taking in the grim, damp room, and the grinning, mad-eyed baron. Nasir's arrow still protruded from de Belleme's shoulder, and the exposed flesh around the sunken tip was discoloured and distended, like the skin of a dead man. It seemed to cause him no great pain however, for he did not hold his arm awkwardly, or flinch at necessary movements. Instead the injury just seemed to make him more at one with his unpleasant surroundings - a hideous place, decorated with grinning argoyles and real skulls. They were of all kinds, including human, and were piled on wooden shelves upon the walls. At least a thousand empty eye sockets stared at Robin as he faced de Belleme, and he felt the scrutiny of every one. 

"You know why I'm here." Sword at the ready, Huntingdon met the baron's stare with steady eyes. De Belleme nodded. 

"I imagine you have the curious idea that you can defeat me. You have all the arrogance to be expected of a son of Herne, at any rate." 

"I'll take that as a compliment." Robin pointed his sword at the other man. "Are you ready?" 

"Ready?" De Belleme laughed. "My dear boy, that sword is nothing to me. I can take it away from you without laying a hand on either it or you. I could cut your throat with one flick of my finger from half the room away, and not need to whisper so much as a spell to make it happen. You can't beat me with that pitiful weapon." 

"Huntingdon?" Gisburne's voice, filled with its usual authority, interrupted de Belleme's tirade, and the baron's head snapped around in anger to face towards the stairs. "Huntingdon, are you alright down there?" 

" For now." Robin kept his own voice calm, trying to suggest that he was in control of the situation. "You worry about your end of things." 

"Oh you don't need to worry about that." There was the sound of footsteps from above, as Gisburne circled the Sheriff of Nottingham. Hugo had come from the shadows as well, armed with a long stave that he would ordinarily never have been seen using. It would not be easy, Gisburne realised, to fight the pair without hurting them, but he was certain that he was up to the challenge. 

"Sir Guy of Gisburne." De Belleme's eyes flashed as he turned back to Robin. "When I've finished with you I'll enjoy flaying the skin from his worthless body." 

"He's not worthless." Huntingdon was surprised to realise that he actually meant it. "He managed to break the control that you had on him. You couldn't keep him under your spell." 

"We all make mistakes. Mine was in not keeping full control of the fool. Believe me, Huntingdon, I'll not make that mistake again." 

"You won't be making any mistakes again." Robin squared his shoulders, wondering how exactly he was supposed to make the first move. "You won't be doing anything from now on." 

"Oh I wouldn't be so sure if I was you." De Belleme moved his hands, painting pictures in the air. "You're the one who's making mistakes now, Hooded Man. Coming here, into my trap, like a lamb to the slaughter. Except that it's not a slaughter that I have planned for you exactly. More a slow, lingering death." 

"Whatever it is you have planned, I think you might be disappointed." Robin began to edge forward, eyes firmly upon de Belleme. The hands, long and pale, were still painting their curious images, and Huntingdon didn't like it. With every strange stroke it seemed to him that the very air was buzzing, and the many candles in the crypt began to flicker. 

"And I think that you're wrong. Look around you, Huntingdon. Tell me that you don't see my triumph written on every stone in the walls." 

"I'm not falling for an old trick like that one." Angry that the baron wouldn't fight him, Huntingdon took another step forward. De Belleme started to laugh. 

"The only old trick here is in the ancient magic that I'm invoking. You destroyed the creature that I was trying to summon, Huntingdon. A creature capable of sucking every drop of energy from Sherwood Forest; of destroying the spirits that have guarded it all of these years. I could have broken Herne's empty husk of a body over by knee, but you destroyed that. The curious thing is that I'm finding I don't care. I have other plans, Hooded Man. Other spells." He pointed a finger at Robin, and the young man felt his strength begin to waver. He wobbled uncertainly on his feet, and the sword in his hands became suddenly heavy. He struggled to concentrate. 

"Cheap parlour tricks." His bravado was wavering, but he struggled to remain firm. "I won't let you succeed, baron." 

"You don't have any say in the matter." Raising his arms above his head, de Belleme began to chant. Robin tried to reach him, to shut him up, but found to his horror that he could not move. Around him the many skulls and bones began to rattle. Many of the candles went out, and from the room up above Gisburne's voice again floated down. 

"Huntingdon? Huntingdon?!" Robin tried to answer him, but couldn't make his mouth work. He knew that he was about to drop his sword, but he couldn't seem to keep hold of it. De Belleme loomed closer. 

"Still think that you can beat me, son of Herne?" He was moving away now, reaching into his robes to pull out a bag of coloured powder. Robin watched helplessly as the evil sorcerer scattered the powder onto the ground, forming hideous symbols and patterns. Sparks flew up from the ground, and several of the candles melted together into a pool of flaming wax. The patterns made of powder were forming words in his mind; words that he knew he could translate because of who he was. They struck at his heart like daggers, and he knew now that he had made a grave mistake in coming here. This wasn't the way to defeat the baron and save Herne and his forest. This wasn't the way to balance the scales of Fate. All that he was doing was making matters worse. 

"And now, Herne's whelp, you die." There were shadows flickering in the corners of Robin's eyes, like liquid enemies running down the walls. He tried to turn his head to look at them, but all that he could see were snaking fingers and black, oily hands. Laughter hissed and spat at him, and the glowing powder symbols on the floor caught fire in a rush of heat. Gisburne's voice was fading; sounding further and further away as he continued to shout Robin's name. De Belleme drew a long, bone-handled knife from within the folds of his robe. 

"Still think that you can defeat me?" The mocking laughter that filled his voice made Robin's blood boil, but the furious outlaw found that he could not move a muscle. He could no longer even turn his head to watch the creeping shadows. De Belleme touched the knife to his throat, but didn't allow it to cut the skin. "What's the matter? Nothing to say? No defiant last words?" 

"My death... isn't unexpected." It was all that he could get out, through lips as numb and immovable as the rest of him. He realised that he wasn't afraid, even if he was apprehensive. His death - the death of Herne's Son - was what was called upon to end all of this, surely? He didn't know how it would work exactly, but he knew that it should. Let de Belleme do his worst, work his spells, make his sacrifice. Robin was staring death in the face more surely now than he had ever done before, but he was at peace. He trusted the predictions that he had heard Herne give, and right now, in this dark and oppressive crypt beneath the ruined church, he was certain that nothing else mattered. He was ready to die. 

********** 

The rain had all but obliterated the trail, and it took Robin and John's best skills to follow de Belleme to his destination. It had taken them a long time to decipher the muddy tracks and blurred prints, and when at last they drew up outside the church the day was advancing towards evening. There were no longer any birds singing, if indeed birds ever sung beside that enchanted place. They came from a different direction to Huntingdon and Gisburne, and didn't see their horses tethered at the edge of the forest - so it was with surprise that John reined in his horse. 

"Robin, look." He pointed to the four creatures, all lying dead with arrows in their throats. "Somebody has been here." 

"More than one somebody. No one person could have shot all four of those things. They'd have ripped his throat out before he could manage it." Robin dismounted, running to the nearest dead beast. The creature was still warm, and clearly hadn't been dead for long. Less than an hour, certainly. "Who would come here and do this?" 

"I can think of one person." John's voice was quiet and gentle. "Robin..." 

"What?" Loxley looked up in answer, then realised that John had not been addressing him. He paled. "He wouldn't." 

"Yes he would. For Marion, for Herne... for all of us. He came here to take your place." 

"But..." Robin stared towards the church, momentarily uncomprehending. "But if you're right..." 

"We have to stop him." John broke into a run, bursting into the church several moments before Robin did the same. They were expecting to see Huntingdon, caught in a last struggle with de Belleme, but all that they saw was Gisburne, sword drawn, circling the brothers de Rainault with a wary look in his eye. He didn't turn at the sound of the new arrivals, but he did speak to them. 

"Keep back." There was a warning in his voice, as well as the usual haughty determination to be obeyed. "I won't let you kill them." 

"We don't plan to." Robin was taken aback to see the young knight there, but was not inclined to question his presence. "Where's Huntingdon?" 

"Down in the crypt." Gisburne slashed out with his sword as Hugo tried to take advantage of his momentary distraction. "I can't get him to answer me anymore." 

"We've got to get down there, Robin." John was advancing on the entrance to the crypt, his concern obvious. Robin drew Albion. 

"I'll go first. This was always supposed to be my fight." He put one foot on the top step, then froze. "Do you hear something?" 

"Rats." John looked about, but couldn't see anything. "It sounds like rats." 

"No. More than that. It's like... like something scratching at a door." Loxley spun around, staring about at the broken walls of the old church. "He's summoning something, John." 

"And I think it's starting to come through." John was staring up above them, where the broken roof gaped like a yawning mouth. Shadows were gathering there, taking form as large, black creatures. They were thin and spindly, but their fearsome claws and teeth were unmistakable. "What in God's name...?" 

"I have to stop him." Loathe to leave John, Robin hesitated at the top of the stairs. "Can you keep these things off?" 

"Yes." It was Gisburne who answered. Loxley bit back a sharp retort, his hatred for the Norman almost costing him precious seconds. Nodding his head, he left the two ill-matched allies to defend his rear, and dashed down the steps. 

"Loxley! How good of you to join us." De Belleme's eyes were burning with a light that was almost feverish. Robin stared about. The crypt was alive with weird lights, and the walls were crawling with creatures just like those in the room above. They were hideous, deformed beasts, their arms and legs disproportionately long, their eyes bright and hot. Black, slimy skin left trails on the stones that glowed in the unearthly lights. In the centre of it all, unable to move, was Huntingdon. His sword lay at his feet and his face was deathly pale. Remembering the hardship of their earlier fight, Loxley ignored his enemy for now, and ran instead towards the Norman outlaw. 

"Huntingdon!" He shook the young man, but got no response. "Huntingdon, can you hear me?" 

"He can hear. Don't expect an enthralling conversation though." De Belleme was coming towards him, and Robin whipped around to face him. 

"Keep back. You're not going to kill him." 

"Him, you, your friends up above... I'll kill you all before I'm done. The rest of your gang, everybody else in Sherwood and Nottingham, the nuns of Kirklees Abbey, Herne... Why stop there?" He snapped his fingers, and Robin felt an invisible sword slice through the skin of his chest. He winced, but did not retreat. He had faced de Belleme's tricks before, and they seemed old to him now. The sorcerer might be stronger now than he had been when they had first met, but he was still the same man, performing the same magic, aiming at the same twisted ends. 

"I don't think so. I've worked it all out now. I thought that I knew how to stop you, and I came here for the same reason Huntingdon did. Neither of us expected to get out of here alive, but that was just what you wanted, wasn't it. The real way to stop you isn't the way we thought it was. It's something different." 

"You haven't got a chance, Loxley. Throw down your sword. Help me instead of hindering me, and I'll give you more than Herne ever could. Be the son of my gods, instead of following that fool in the forest." 

"No." Loxley put a hand on Huntingdon's shoulder and stared deep into the blond man's clear, light eyes. "Robin. Robin, you have to come out of this." 

"You're wasting your time." De Belleme clapped his hands together, and a wave of heat blazed its way up Robin's sword arm. He almost dropped Albion, but clung on even when it seemed that his palm must blister and burn. "You can't win. It's beginning, Loxley. My powers are consolidating themselves. I can taste the chaos. It's all around. Look at my creatures, breaking through, coming to engulf your pitiful lord and master. Herne the Hunter will be a memory by dawn." 

"No." It took all that Huntingdon had within him to speak the one word. "You can't win." 

"And what can you do about it?" The mockery in the baron's voice should have hurt, but neither of Herne's Sons was listening to it enough to be stung. Loxley glared at him. 

"More than you think." His hand dug deep into Robin's shoulder, and he raised Albion. De Belleme tried to stop him with a hiss of suppressed fury, and the creatures dropping from the walls began to converge. Loxley turned the blade around, capturing as much of the candlelight as he could to flash a burst of white light into Huntingdon's eyes. His companion blinked, choked, and finally moved. He seemed winded and weak, but he reached down and snatched up his sword, turning to face de Belleme with a terrible fury in his eyes. 

"You're not leaving this room alive, Simon. Not even if it means that the rest of us don't either. Call your creatures off." 

"Why? You can't beat me. Your friends above will already have been over-run, and soon you'll go the same way." He laughed as one of the beasts leapt at Loxley, and the outlaw only just managed to knock it aside before it reached him. "That weapon is nothing, Huntingdon. I've told you that before. I've been dead. I died, and came back to life. You think that you can kill me with that pitiful blade?" 

"No." Huntingdon was still advancing on him. "It's not you that has to die. It's me. Me or Loxley. That'll end this. It has to." 

"No!" Horror-stricken Loxley dashed forward, kicking aside the grabbing creatures as they tried to pull him down. "That's just what he wants! I was wrong, Robin. We were both wrong! It's not one of us that has to die." 

"Don't listen to him, Huntingdon. He wants to save your life, because he thinks that it's him who should die. He doesn't want you to die for him." The baron reached out, holding his hand out for Huntingdon to take. "Don't listen to him." 

"Huntingdon!" Loxley made a grab for the other man, but was too late. De Belleme had already caught hold of him, his pale, strong fingers gripping the young man's throat. Huntingdon began to choke, his face paling, his knees buckling. Loxley tried to drag him back, but the creatures summoned by the sorcerer were snatching at him, pulling him away. He fell, losing his hold on Albion. Above him he saw Huntingdon fighting back at last, struggling to bring his sword to bear on the baron. He slashed with it, finally managing to stab his attacker. De Belleme laughed. 

"I told you that that weapon was no use against me, fool, any more than is this worthless missile embedded in my shoulder. Why are you still fighting me? Give up and die, and end this pointless struggle. Let me take you, and be glad." 

"No!" Loxley could hardly move, weighed down by the creatures snapping and tearing at his legs and arms. They were dragging Albion away from him, but he knew that he had to get the sword again. He struggled forward. Huntingdon was on the last of his strength now, barely upright, his arms drooping uselessly at his sides. De Belleme's eyes began to glow, and the lights of all the candles converged together into one bright, cold flame. One of the walls began to crack, and Loxley's eyes widened. He knew that he didn't want to see what was about to come through. 

"Get off me!" With the last of his strength he pulled an arm free and snatched at Albion. He almost missed it, for the creatures made one last effort to pull it out of his reach, but his fingers caught the hilt at last. He gripped hard, then swung the sword in a clumsy circle. The creatures screamed and fell back. 

"You can't win, Loxley!" De Belleme sounded worried now. Loxley stumbled to his feet. 

"No. It's you that can't win, baron. I won't let you. Huntingdon won't let you. _Herne_ isn't going to let you." He started to advance. De Belleme pushed Huntingdon at him, but Robin side-stepped the tumbling figure. The sorcerer started to chant spells, but Loxley raised his sword, and used the enchanted blade to fend off the evil trickery being hurled against him. De Belleme paled. 

"No!" His voice rose to a high pitched wail of fury. "No!" 

"It's the end, de Belleme." Robin pointed Albion at him, aware that the ancient and magical blade of Herne's sword would do what Huntingdon's more ordinary blade could not. The sorcerer glared at him, furious and bitter. 

"No. Never the end. _Never the end_. I'll see you yet, Loxley. You and all your pitiful band. _I'll see you yet!_" 

"Maybe." Robin raised the sword up high. "And maybe not." The sword fell. De Belleme choked. Shrieked. Fell. There was a rush of hot air - and with a scream of fury and pain the scrambling, snatching creatures disappeared. Suddenly weak, suddenly drained, Loxley fell to the ground. Nearby he could hear Huntingdon moving, and as the burning symbols on the floor around them blazed up into a rush of green flame and vanished, Herne's first son heard a tired, wondering voice speak his name. 

"Robin?" 

"Yes." Loxley was too tired to sit up, or to turn and look at his companion. 

"How... how did you do that? You killed him. I couldn't." 

"It was Albion. It's no ordinary sword, remember? I'm glad that I had it, but Herne could have killed you sending it to me instead." 

"No." Huntingdon lowered his head. "I wouldn't have used it. Perhaps he knew that all along. I never even gave a thought to killing de Belleme until you came here. I was so certain that it was one of us that had to die, and I couldn't see anything beyond that." He rolled over, staring up at the ceiling. "I was wrong though, wasn't I. Very wrong." 

"We both were. It was de Belleme. De Belleme was the one that had to die again." Loxley flashed Huntingdon a broad grin. "It was staring us in the face all along, and we missed it. We both nearly threw our lives away for nothing." 

"Then it's over." It seemed an anticlimax, after preparing himself for the approach of death. Huntingdon sat up, rather slowly, examining himself for injuries. He felt stiff and sore all over, but there did not appear to be any blood. "Isn't it?" 

"I think so." Loxley stood, offering his companion an arm to help him up. "He's dead at any rate." 

"So Herne has his balance. The Forest isn't in danger any longer." Huntingdon stared dispassionately at the dead body of the feared sorcerer. "Do you think he'll come back?" 

"We should burn his body. See that he can't." Loxley also stared at the sprawled figure, eyes betraying his anger and hatred. He had encountered the baron on several occasions now, and on each occasion his dislike for the man had increased greatly. "I'd do it quickly enough, if I was sure that it would be the end of him." 

"But you can't be sure that it will?" 

"You weren't raised to the same traditions and superstitions as I was." Loxley smiled to remember some of the tales he had been told as a child; things that would have been omitted from the more noble education of the Earl of Huntingdon's son. Sometimes it was a good thing to forget those old tales, for many of them were no more than fiction; but sometimes, as Loxley had learned, one ignored old traditions and legends at one's peril. "In the old times they used to think that it was dangerous to burn witches, for fear that their powers would escape in the flames when the body was destroyed, and that they'd be able to return to the Earth by perhaps taking another host." Loxley coloured slightly. "I don't know if it's true, but I don't want to take the risk. Not without being able to talk to Herne first." 

"Then what do we do? Incarcerate him down here?" Huntingdon paced about the small crypt, eyeing the many heavy tombs. They were fashioned from great chunks of stone and marble, and certainly seemed to be secure. Loxley nodded. 

"He won't get out of one of these without help, whether he returns to life or not. Of course he had help the last time..." 

"He won't get it this time." Huntingdon used the point of his sword to begin levering off the lid of one of the tombs. "Not if there's anything that I can do to prevent it." 

"There may well be." Loxley indicated Albion, lying on the floor where it had fallen. "The last time it was the Silver Arrow that resurrected him, probably because it was the Silver Arrow that killed him. This time he was killed by Albion, and it's up to both of us to make sure that it never gets used to bring him back." 

"Both of us." Huntingdon smiled, although he felt a little uncomfortable with the idea that there were two of them now. "Well them maybe it should be both of us trying to open this tomb. The lid weighs more than Tuck." 

"Sorry." Laughing, Loxley hurried to lend a hand, and between them the two young men were able to slide the heavy lid to one side. The tomb was deep and lined with lead, and bore a quantity of ancient bones. At least three people seemed to have been buried within the stone casket, all of them dressed in what appeared to be simple robes, although the clothing was so worn that it was hard to see what it had once been. A silver cross hung around a dilapidated neck, suggesting some religious personage, and Loxley nodded in satisfaction. 

"This is as good a place as any. Help me to lift him." 

"With pleasure." Together they hoisted the dead body of their hated enemy, and heaved him into the casket. He landed with a heavy thump amidst the old bones, scattering them to the four corners of the tomb. Loxley felt rather guilty for disturbing their rest, but hoped that, whoever they were, they wouldn't mind too much. 

"I'll be glad to get out of this place." Struggling to replace the lid, Huntingdon cast a final glance around at the eerie crypt. "I wonder what the others are doing?" 

"Resting, if they've any sense." Loxley settled the lid into place, and gave it a satisfied pat. "Will looked in a dreadful state." 

"Gisburne." Huntingdon shook his head. "Him and his soldiers. Sometimes it seems that there isn't a decent man amongst them." 

"I doubt that there's a decent man in the whole of Nottingham Castle." Loxley frowned at him as they began to mount the slimy stairs that led to the main body of the church. "Why did you bring him with you? I was meaning to ask before, but there wasn't much opportunity." 

"Ah." Robin flushed a little. "He was handy, at the time. Nasir and I were alone, and we didn't know where anybody else was... and you've got to admit he was useful. He watched my back when I came to help out at the baron's manor. If it hadn't been for him I'd never have been able to use the Silver Arrow to send that... that creature back to hell. I'd have had my throat cut by Little John and the others." 

"The strangest of allies." Loxley stepped out into the church, surprised to feel the soft fall of rain on his face. It seemed that the baron's spells had been broken, and he could see the darkening evening sky now, its faint light at last shining through the broken roof. Water splattered on the stone floor, making little puddles and rivulets that trickled through the holes between the flagstones. 

"He was useful here, too. I couldn't bring anybody else to help out, and I'd never have got past the creatures that were guarding the entrance without him. He kept the de Rainaults distracted so that I could face the baron, too." He looked around, thinking about Gisburne again for the first time in some while. "But speaking of our favourite wretch, where is he?" 

"Gone, obviously." Loxley smiled at him, eyes teasing. "Looks like your ally wasn't as allied as he could have been. He probably took off with his masters. Freed them, or waited until the baron's death did it for him, and then ran." 

"Charming." Huntingdon frowned. "Then where's Little John?" 

"There." Loxley's sharp eyes had spotted a large figure lying sprawled on the ground near to the door. "Looks like he was laid out by something." 

"Gisburne no doubt." They hurried over, in time to hear the first sounds of reawakening from the unconscious form. "He must have hit John when he left with the Sheriff and Hugo." His face turned serious. "We're lucky John wasn't killed, with those three against him." 

"The de Rainaults wouldn't have been up to it, and maybe Gisburne was still being a good ally." Loxley smiled teasingly. "He must like you." 

"I doubt that." Huntingdon answered the smile with one of his own, and gave John a hand to climb to his feet. The big man seemed rueful, and he blushed when he greeted his two friends. 

"I don't think this is my day." 

"Well it feels like it's mine." Loxley clapped him on the shoulder. "It's over, John, and you were right. I was a fool not to think of other possibilities. I could have got myself killed for nothing." 

"Aye, well. You always did need looking after, Robin." John laughed at him, throwing a burly arm around the neck of his old friend. "And you too Robin. Why Herne chose a useless pair like you two to be his sons is anybody's guess." 

"I think I agree." Huntingdon couldn't help grinning, and felt sure that he was probably beginning to look rather daft for doing so. "I'm sorry John. If you've got a headache it's probably my fault. I can't believe I was fool enough to trust Gisburne." 

"I'm glad you were." John rubbed his head. "It wasn't him that hit me. It was the Sheriff. He was going to run me through, but believe it or not Gisburne stopped him. I was barely conscious, so I suppose I could have dreamt it - but I could have sworn that I heard him saying it wasn't right. Did you have some kind of a pact with him?" 

"Maybe I did." Huntingdon whistled softly. "Well I never. Maybe there is a shred of decency in him somewhere. I'd be glad if there is." 

"Well I doubt it's a big one, if it really is there." John stretched his big frame, recovering his strength all the while. "Still, I suppose I shouldn't speak ill of him, at least for the rest of the day." 

"Which isn't very long, fortunately." Loxley grinned at them both. "So what do you say that we get on back to the others, always supposing that our Nottingham friends have left us any horses?" 

"I think they took the chariot. The de Rainaults might not have been up to riding." John led the way out of the church. "It's a strange experience, waking up out of something like that." 

"And I'm sorry that you had to go through it again." Loxley put a hand on the other man's shoulder. "But de Belleme's gone now, and with luck he'll stay gone." Little John nodded. 

"I hope so. But enough of being so serious, Robin. Let's just get ourselves back. I have a feeling that Marion is going to be especially pleased to see you. _Both_ of you." 

"All of us." Huntingdon wondered how it would feel to see Marion's greatest pleasure being in the safe return of somebody other than himself, and smiled sadly. She was lost to him now, for good and all. 

"Aye, all of us. I reckon you're right." They reached the edge of the trees, where their horses still waited. Gisburne's was gone, but sure enough the others still remained. They looked disgruntled at having been left alone for so long, and in such inclement weather, but they showed no sign of unwillingness to be ridden. The three men gathered the animals together, and started them off on the journey back. It was cold, it was wet and it was growing progressively dark, but not one of the three felt at all uncomfortable. Far from it. 

Night had fallen before they reached the baron's dilapidated mansion. A fire burned near to the gates, and Much was huddled close to it, clearly standing watch. He looked up at the sound of approaching horses, but didn't look especially happy. It was clear that he was not expecting all of his friends to return, and both Robins felt a pang of guilt for that fact. They slowed their horses, entering the firelight together; a threesome soaked and muddied, weary but triumphant. Much gaped up at them, and they saw the shock and delight that raced across his expressive young face. 

"Robin." He didn't sound as though he believed what he was seeing. "Robin." 

"Hello Much." Loxley dismounted, hugging the boy close. Much pulled away. 

"But I thought-- But you said-- _How_, Robin?" 

"I was wrong." It was easy enough to admit it, especially to his foster brother. Much stared up at Huntingdon and John, eyes bright with tears. 

"All of you. You're back. Then is the baron dead?" 

"Aye lad." John almost threw himself from his horse's broad back, clapping the young man on the shoulders in a hearty display of affection that looked almost as violent as one of Gisburne's interrogations. Huntingdon laughed. 

"Leave him alone John. You'll kill him! 

"He's stronger than he looks." John ruffled Much's hair. "Come on lad. There's no need for you to stay over here all on your own. It's time for us to head back home now anyway." 

"Good." Much scurried along after them as they headed over to the makeshift shelter where the others were waiting. It was hard to make them out, silhouetted as they all were in the light from a second fire. Marion was asleep, held in Tuck's gentle arms, and Will and Nasir were talking together in low voices. Both men looked up at the approaching figures, but neither showed great surprise at the sight of both of Herne's Sons arriving together. Tuck's whispered expression of delight made Marion awaken with a jerk. She blinked around, surprised that she had fallen asleep - before her eyes fell on Loxley, towering above her. 

"Robin?" She didn't believe her eyes, that much was obvious. She thought that she was dreaming. "Robin, is that really you?" 

"Yes." He crouched down beside her and Tuck willingly loosened his embrace, letting Robin replace it with his own. "It's really me." 

"Both of you." She reached out a hand to Huntingdon too, but he merely smiled at her, and didn't make any attempt at contact. Her expression was gentle, and he knew that she understood why he was keeping his distance. As Robin heaved her to her feet, she turned her smile towards John, her sparkling wet eyes showing her affection for him as well. 

"We thought we'd lost you." Tuck was bustling around, stoking up the fire, wishing that he had something other than water to offer the returning men. Huntingdon nodded. 

"We thought that we were lost too." 

"Aye. More than once." John laughed loudly, already remembering the deadly expedition with a certain amount of humour. "But it's all over now." 

"For good?" Tuck didn't want to think about a man like the baron returning from the grave yet again, but he knew that neither Robin could put his fears at rest there. Loxley shrugged his shoulders. 

"Who can tell? We've won the battle for now, and that's as much as anybody can ask. It's certainly all that Herne wanted. I'd just as soon go home and forget all of this. I feel that I have a lot of catching up to do." 

"Home." Marion leant against him, enjoying just the feel of his presence. "That sounds wonderful. But Will and Nasir..." 

"Are fine." Will couldn't even sit up straight, but apparently his injuries had not affected the volume of his voice. He grinned up at Robin. "I've been hearing a lot of things. Things that mean we all owe you an apology. We thought you were a devil or something." 

"Whatever it was that you thought, it was justified." Robin didn't want to remember how he had thought those same dreadful things, and had felt so horribly lost and alone. "It's not something that we have to talk about, Will. There are no apologies that need making." He pointed a stern finger at the other man. "But Marion's right about you. You can't walk." 

"I'm not bloody staying here." As though to make a point he tried forcing himself upright, but had to stop halfway. Nasir, who was sitting beside him, leaning against the stable wall, helped to ease him back down again. The Saracen seemed none the worse for his own injuries, but there wasn't a member of the gang who was fooled by that performance. Well schooled he might be, but that didn't make him invincible. 

"We'll make a stretcher. It's no bother, and we can take it in turns to carry him." John was already looking for likely tools, in the midst of Will's heartfelt objections. Loxley nodded. 

"How's your head, Tuck?" he asked. The friar smiled ruefully at him. 

"It's been better, but then it's been a whole lot worse before as well. I can take my turn carrying one end of a stretcher, don't you worry about that. I take it that there's no need for speed?" 

"None at all." Loxley was staring into the forest, wishing that it was Sherwood, and not just some nameless other place. "But it'll be good to be back, no matter how long it takes." 

"Why walk at all?" Marion pointed towards the stables. "There are quite a few horses in there. Maybe even enough for one each, with the three that you've got. If we could find some kind of a wagon for Will and Nasir to travel in..." Nasir's dark look told her what he thought of that idea, but she was already beginning to organise things. Loxley kissed the top of her head. 

"Sometimes I wonder why Herne didn't choose you instead of me. You always were the one with all the sense." 

"I know." She smiled up at him, then slid out of his embrace and pulled open the stable door. There were four horses inside, all strong looking animals, and all looking as though they had come originally from Nottingham Castle. Huntingdon moved past her, beginning the task of saddling the creatures. 

"It looks like there's some kind of a cart over there." He pointed into the darkness, and Marion went to investigate. Sure enough, partly covered by straw and a good deal of dust and cobwebs, was a small, open wagon. It was little more than a wheeled board, with rusting axles and several missing spokes, but when she climbed onto it, it seemed sturdy enough. John hauled it out into the courtyard, and set about fixing one of the horses to it. The animal objected, but he told it in no uncertain terms that it was just going to have to do as it was told. Loxley laughed. 

"You always did have a way with animals, John." 

"This one's got a way with me." John finally secured the animal, then gestured towards the cart. "It won't be very comfortable, but it'll be better for both of you than walking or riding." 

"Great." Will had another go at sitting up, but again had to abandon the attempt. His ribs felt as if they were on fire. "Ow. Damn. Somebody tell me that I got my own back on Gisburne for this." 

"You will, one day." Loxley helped him up, and with John's help got him into the wagon. He edged himself into a half sitting, half lying position against the side, and smiled to pretend that he was comfortable. Nasir was already on his feet, and although he looked pale, nobody suggested helping him. He sat down beside Will. 

"You look like death warmed up, Naz." Will would have laughed in other circumstances, but rather suspected that to do so would be too painful now. "If I look half as bad as you do, no wonder Marion keeps fussing around." 

"I do _not_ 'fuss'." Swinging up onto one of the horses, the young woman glared at him as fiercely as she could. Struggling to get his own horse to point in the right direction, Much managed in the end to bring it alongside the wagon. 

"And he only looks as bad as he does because he got stabbed," he piped up brightly. Now astride his own mount once again, John deliberately swung it around so that he almost knocked Much from his saddle. The boy objected indignantly, until he saw John's meaningful glare and fell silent. Will's expression darkened. 

"Bloody Gisburne." 

"Yeah." John's grin was matched by those of the others. "He's a right one alright. Needs something very painful doing to him I reckon." 

"Oh that's nice." Inspired by his usual sense of misplaced family loyalty, Huntingdon felt obliged to stand up for the infuriating - if, in this case, actually innocent - young knight. "I thought you were grateful to him for not letting de Rainault skewer you back at the church." 

"I've decided to forget about that." Taking up the reins of the horse harnessed to the cart, John began to lead it along. The big man was clearly in high spirits, and as usual it was extremely infectious. "Besides, there's nothing that isn't worth doing to Guy of Gisburne - whatever he might have done." 

"Good point." Loxley had had reason enough many a time to hate the vicious steward. "I'd suggest drowning, but we already nearly did that once." 

"There's always roasting him alive," suggested Tuck, sounding uncharacteristically vindictive. Much began to giggle. 

"You're getting too complicated," put in Will, voice gruff. "Just give him a taste of his own medicine. I reckon I could do as good a job on him as his guards did on me. Just as soon as I can stand up without falling over, anyway." 

"That won't be for a while yet." Her tone suggesting that she thought he might be thinking of going after Gisburne right away, Marion brought her horse alongside the cart. Will opened his mouth to make a rude reply, but the cart jolted over a rough piece of ground, and he yelped instead. 

"Ow." Flopping back down, he stared up at the grey and wintry sky. "Bloody Gisburne. I vote we do something to him, anyway. Something _painful_." 

"The rack," answered John immediately. Loxley shook his head. 

"Thumbscrews. More satisfying. Or there's always hot oil." 

"And flaying," added Will. 

"Tooth pulling." 

"Branding irons." 

"Limb removal." 

"Stoning." 

And as their suggestions grew increasingly gory, and their spirits rose accordingly high, so it carried on throughout the night. 

********** 

Loxley awoke in darkness, which surprised him momentarily. They had arrived back in Sherwood in the late afternoon, having taken the journey slowly, and after the most cursory of meals had all fallen asleep around a hastily built fire. Loxley wondered how long he had slept, realising as he looked around him that it was now early on a dark and wintry morning. The only sound was that of the first and earliest of the birds, and the only light that from the fire. He sat up, staring around at the featureless silhouettes of his friends, and wondered why his left side felt so cold. It came to him in a rush - Marion was gone. Slowly he stood and looked around him. All was quiet in the camp, all was still. Everybody else was apparently asleep. 

"Marion?" He called her name quietly, not wanting to disturb the others. "Marion?" 

"That way." He almost jumped at the sound of Nasir's voice, then smiled. Trust him to be awake, when everyone else was asleep. 

"She's gone?" He was surprised by the news that she had left the camp, although there was no reason why she should not have done so. "How long ago?" 

"Not long." 

"Did she say anything to you?" Robin wondered where she had gone, and how long she would be. It had disturbed him more than he would have thought likely, to have awakened and found her gone from his side. Nasir nodded. 

"What?" 

"Lie down. Rest." The Saracen pronounced these wise words with such distaste that Robin had to smile. He clapped his old friend on the shoulder, trying to be gentle without letting it show. 

"You should listen to her. You were stabbed." 

"Not deep." Nasir pointed past him, indicating once again which way Marion had gone, and Robin took the hint. He smiled again. 

"Thankyou." The answer was a faint incline of the dark, curly head, a gesture that brought back so many memories. It felt better than he could ever have imagined to be back, a part of all of this once again. Nasir melted away, and Robin followed suit, though in a different direction. The forest was dark, but he was certain enough that he could find Marion, if she was still in Sherwood to be found. 

He found her down river, standing beside a large bush, where she had apparently come with the intention of collecting what berries the birds had consented to leave. She wasn't picking anything though, and was merely standing still, twisting several grass stalks around her fingers, apparently thinking about something that was troubling her. Robin smiled, struck, as ever, by how beautiful she was. She glanced up at him, and her face softened at his approach. 

"Here you are." He realised that he had been afraid she had gone; headed back to Kirklees Abbey without any attempt at a goodbye. He should have known, of course, that even Marion wasn't strong enough for that. 

"Here I am." She sounded troubled, and he knew that she was facing a difficult decision. Against every wish and every instinct, she had chosen once to enter Kirklees, and turn her back on the life she had loved. Now she was thinking of going back there. 

"Are you alright?" He wanted to go to her, but felt that he would be disturbing her too much if he did that now. She smiled at him, and nodded. 

"I'm alright. I feel like I was asleep too long, that's all. I needed to walk for a bit." 

"I know what you mean. We must have been pretty tired when we got back to the camp. We've slept for hours." 

"No wonder I feel so stiff." She smiled at him, but there was a distance in her eyes. "Will slept well, anyway. He was very peaceful when I left." 

"Oh Will's alright. He always is, you know him. Tough as good boot leather." 

"I know." She thought about some of the other times when she had seen him injured, although never before as badly as this. He always bounced back, sooner rather than later. "Nasir will be fine too, although he'd be better if he'd let me look after him properly." 

"Nasir knows his limits. He's been fighting battles since he was younger than Much was, when we all first got together. Don't worry about him." 

"I suppose you're right." She smiled suddenly, and stopped toying with the grasses wound around her fingers. "So why did you come looking for me, Robin? What was it that you wanted to say?" 

"You know what I want." He moved closer to her, closer than he had allowed himself to do since finding her here. "I wanted to know what you're planning to do now. Are you going to stay here in the forest?" 

"I don't know." She hung her head. "I left before because I couldn't stand to lose another man that I'd loved. Having you back doesn't change anything, Robin. If anything it makes it harder for me to stay. How can I ever cope with losing you again?" 

"Because if you go to Kirklees then you already have lost me, that's how. Because if you stay here with me, losing me is a possibility. If you leave and go back to the abbey, you'll be losing me for sure." He took her arms and held her tightly, although he didn't draw her close. "I can't promise never to leave you, Marion. I can't promise still to be here tomorrow. But I am here now." 

"And when next summer comes, and ends? Herne took you at the end of one summer, and at the end of another he tried to take the other Robin. What happens next time? There can't always be a clever resolution, or a miracle." 

"Marion, next summer is next summer. It's a lifetime away. How can any of us worry about that, when even the winter hasn't even begun? How can you worry about next year, when we've still to survive this one? Life isn't supposed to be about worrying over what _might_ happen. It's supposed to be about living with what _is_ happening now." 

"I can't lose you again, Robin." She pulled him against her, and he wrapped his arms around her waist instinctively. Her head rested on his shoulder, and he closed his eyes. 

"And I could never live without you again, either. But that's not for us to decide, Marion. Don't say anything now. Don't make your decision yet. Live today." 

"Live today and worry tomorrow." It was so like him. He was always so carefree, and that, of course, was one of the reasons why she loved him so much. "I don't know. I made my decision once, and it seemed so simple. So perfect." 

"But that was then." He pushed her away from him, very gently, so that he could look into her eyes. "Tell me now that it's simple. Tell me that it's easy for you to walk away from me, and not look back. Tell me that you want to spend the rest of your life in Kirklees, instead of spending it with me." 

"I can't." She was weakening, even though she had, before his arrival, been about to make the decision to go back to her life at the abbey. It had seemed right; the only way. Now nothing seemed that simple anymore. "Oh Robin. Why did you always make things so complicated for me?" 

"Because life is never simple, and love certainly isn't." He stroked her hair. "You're my wife, Marion." 

"I know." She smiled up at him. "And that's why it's so very hard. I can't--" 

"Then don't." Whatever she had been about to say didn't matter. "Come back to the camp with me. Spend today with me, and tomorrow and the day after, and everything will be alright. I'll never try to stop you, if you decide that Kirklees is your future, but in the meantime... just be with me, Marion. I love you." 

"And I love you." She held his hands, and stared at each of them in turn. The hands that had taught her to shoot, and to skin rabbits, and to mend the broken flights of an arrow. She knew them as well as she knew her own, and felt that she could hold them forever. 

"Then come with me back to the camp." He pulled gently, and at first she resisted. It felt as though she was taking a huge step, and it was one that she wasn't quite sure she was ready to take. He pulled harder, and she felt herself caving in. He was right. How could she turn her back and go to Kirklees, and leave him behind? She really would be losing him then, even if they both lived to be a hundred. With the faintest of smiles, that soon became the broadest of grins, she let him lead her away. There was plenty of time for decisions tomorrow. Kirklees would still be there then. 

The camp was different to before, although perhaps it was only Robin's view of it that had changed. It didn't feel like somebody else's home now; it was his. The warmth and camaraderie that he remembered had come flooding back, and all was as it had always been. The others were awake, moving around, and he heard the beginnings of the mock arguments that he had always enjoyed so much. Will was of course still badly injured, and although he wasn't supposed to be sitting up was still managing to play a full part in everything that was going on. Marion had forbidden him to drink any alcohol, which was rather like telling Tuck not to pray, or Nasir not to be so quiet, and he had contrived to get a drink from somewhere. Much and Little John were fighting an ill-matched wrestling bout in the centre of the clearing, and Will cheered them on with gusto. Tuck, now fully recovered from his blow on the head, dodged around the battling pair, tripping them both up with the end of his quarter-staff every time their feet came too close. Close by Nasir was sharpening his swords, just as he had always done in the days that Robin remembered, sparing a smile every now and again for the clownish antics going on around him. 

"Home." Marion leant her head against Robin's shoulder, unable to stop the smile from stealing across her face. "It really does feel like coming home." 

"Of course it does." He gave her hand a squeeze, and led her over to the fire. "What else is it going to feel like?" 

"I don't know. I thought I'd left it all behind me. I thought..." She shook her head. "It doesn't matter, does it. However long it's for, and whatever happens tomorrow, this is home now. And I can't think of anywhere I'd rather be." 

"I'm glad to hear it." Will toasted her with a flagon of ale, and she glared at him. 

"I thought I'd put that out of your reach." 

"You did, but I told Much to bring some to me." He grinned at her, and tipped a long draught down his throat. "It's better medicine than all your herbs, Marion. That sage and fennel and whatever, they don't taste like this stuff does." 

"You're incorrigible." She smiled at him anyway, and moved to check his bandages. The ribs would have to heal in their own time, but everything else seemed to be doing alright. The many small cuts had escaped poisoning, and the battering his head had received had apparently not caused any lasting damage. Why that surprised her she couldn't imagine. Will was as tough as a cart horse. 

"I keep telling you I'm alright." He didn't try to get up though, which was proof enough that he was not yet as strong as he would be. "You let Nasir walk around like nothing happened to him, but he got himself stabbed." 

"True." They still hadn't told Will what he had done, and he had showed no signs of remembering. Nasir certainly bore him no ill will, although there was a scar on his back that would probably be with him for months. "It might even have been fatal if he wasn't wearing all that leather." 

"Careless of you Naz." Will saluted him with his ale. "I thought you were supposed to have eyes in the back of your head?" 

"I was distracted." Nasir set aside his swords and stood up, stretching slightly as though to prove that he was fully healed. He wasn't, but only he and Marion knew that, and she was discreet enough to allow him his pride. They would all be glad of the chance for a rest before their next skirmish, but some of them definitely needed it more than others. 

"Where's Robin?" Finally deciding that he had played with Much long enough, John lifted the squirming boy up into the air, and dumped him in the nearest bush. The bush wriggled furiously for some time before Much was able to crawl out. 

"He left camp in the night." Brushing leaves and twigs from his hair, the boy climbed to his feet. "Said something about thinking. He's not going to leave us, is he Little John?" 

"I don't think so." John couldn't imagine Huntingdon doing anything else with his life. Whatever he had once been, he was a part of them now. He belonged with them just as much as Loxley did. "Did he say anything to anyone?" 

"He was talking to Nasir when I woke up." Much grabbed Will's ale, and took a long drink, rather too fast. Fighting off a fit of coughing that caused Little John to bang him gleefully on the back, he sat down on the ground beside the fire. Nasir raised an eyebrow. 

"He will be back," was all that he would say on the matter, largely because it was all that he knew. Huntingdon had spoken to him because, as always, he had been the first one awake, and had been sitting up when the former noble had decided to set off. Marion nodded. 

"I'm sure he will. He's not the type to walk out on us." 

"I should think not." Striding out of the trees wearing his familiar smile, Huntingdon had a look about him of relaxation and contentment. He had clearly been swimming, and his hair was only just beginning to dry. "I just wanted to think for a bit, that's all." 

"What about?" Will looked serious, for the first time since he had woken up that morning. Huntingdon headed for the fire, standing before it to let it warm his damp clothes. For the first time it felt like true winter, and even though the morning was now advancing, it was still quite dark. Tuck handed him a mug, and he nodded his thanks. 

"Oh, you know. Life." He took a drink of warmed wine, and let it do its work before continuing. The swim had not been the best of ideas given the chill of the morning, but it had helped him to clear his head more than anything else he had been able to think of. "About what happens now." 

"I'll leave the forest myself before I let you do the same." Loxley's voice was quiet, but it was filled with meaning. _I won't be the usurper_, it said, and Huntingdon nodded. 

"I don't plan to leave. I don't think that either of us needs to. Nobody ever said that Herne couldn't have two sons, and he seems quite happy with the situation himself. He spoke to me..." He was silent for a second, and his gaze rested on Marion. "In any family it's the eldest son that has seniority, and I'll stand back and let you be the leader. But don't expect me to be an uncritical second-in-command." 

"I would never ask that." Robin stepped forward, his movements slow and smooth. "But Albion--" 

"Albion is yours." Huntingdon looked away, to where the sword was lying in its sheath just beside the fire, basking in the reflected glow of the adjacent Silver Arrow. How that ancient silver token had been returned to them none of the gang could say, but there it lay nonetheless, as beautiful and as flawless as ever. "In as much as it ever belongs to anybody other than Herne, it's yours. You were the first born son. I heard him quite clearly when I was walking through the forest, and it's his choice. His guidance. I have the guardianship of the Arrow." 

"And you don't mind?" It felt awkward, like when Robin had first been settling in to the Miller's home, when it had become clear that his father wasn't coming back to fetch him. Like he had to try to find the right things to say, and couldn't quite be relaxed. Huntingdon nodded. 

"I don't mind. It's a compliment, Robin. To guard the Arrow is the greatest honour I can think of - and besides, I have a perfectly good sword. Don't try to find problems before we even begin." 

"I'm not looking for problems." He saw them, but he wasn't looking for them. Problems like Marion, for instance. Huntingdon was smiling, although his eyes showed that all was not quite as well as it could have been. 

"You're worried." He stepped forward, holding out his hand for Marion to take. She did so, and he pulled her gently to her feet. "You're worried about Marion. Well you needn't be. I realised long ago that I could never have her, and that... that I wasn't the person she would always want." His voice changed, as his words addressed themselves to Marion instead of to Loxley; a voice that hid most of the pain he couldn't help feeling. "I shall always love you, Marion. Always. But from now onwards I shall be your friend, and your comrade, and your loyal companion. No more." 

"No more." She smiled, then leaned over and kissed him gently on the cheek. "Thankyou Robin." 

"Robert." It was a gentle correction. "I think we can do without the extra confusion, don't you?" 

"Robert." It felt strange to call him that, and yet oddly familiar. It recalled the early days, of his insecurity at taking up Robin's mantle. So much had changed since then. So very, very much. 

"So now Herne has two sons." Seeing that the moment needed lightening, Tuck picked up the wooden bowl that they had always used for their shared blessing, in the evenings around the fire. "Sounds like a good thing if you ask me. The taxes go up every year, and we're going to need the extra manpower if we're to stay one step ahead of the Sheriff's men." 

"Aye. And once he's got over being bewitched by the baron, he's going to be hopping mad." John's loud laughter dispelled any concerns they might have had about that state of affairs. "We'll have to keep our wits about us if we're going to carry on fighting him." 

"Oh he's always angry about something." Will didn't give a damn whether the Sheriff was angry or not; he was the enemy whatever his mood was. Marion nodded. 

"He's been angry about something for as long as I've known him. Always ranting at Gisburne or at Hugo, or some unfortunate serving girl. He'll be livid when he finds out that there are two Robin Hoods to be fought now." 

"Maybe he'll resign," suggested Much. John laughed. 

"Somehow I doubt it." 

"So do I." Pouring water into the bowl, Tuck held it out to Loxley. "The Sheriff of Nottingham may be a fool at times, but he's still a very tenacious man. We haven't seen the last of him, and I doubt we ever shall." 

"But in the meantime..." Loxley held up the bowl, looking at each of them in turn. At John, straight and tall and proud; at Much, small, bright and eager; at Will, stubborn and strong and determined; Huntingdon, loyal, steadfast and true; Tuck, stout, firm and gentle; Nasir, devoted, intense and resolute - and at Marion. Beautiful, sweet, brave Marion. His family. His friends. And his wife. 

"Herne protect us." They were familiar words, and it certainly didn't feel as though it had been two years since he had last said them. Two years, cared for and protected by powers that were well beyond his understanding. He sipped the water, and tasted its coldness and purity. The stuff of life - a life that he had finally won back. He handed the bowl to Marion. 

"Herne protect us." She had missed this as much as he had, and he knew that she wouldn't be leaving again. Whatever happened, she was here now to stay. They all were. He wondered if any of them would still be fighting this fight when the next winter started creeping around them. It didn't matter. You fought whilst you could, and you did the best you could, for as long as you were able to do it. That was all that counted, for Herne's sons, or for anybody else's. Marion held the bowl out to Huntingdon. 

"Herne protect us." Oddly Huntingdon felt that the ceremony had never meant as much to him as it did now. It wasn't a question of passing the burden across, or of losing the responsibility. He was as much Herne's Son today as on the day when he had first accepted his destiny, believing that Loxley was dead. It was simply that he knew he had done the right thing, and that the world would be a better place for it. Albion might no longer hang at his side, but a man could fight with any sword, especially when he knew that he was fighting for the right reason. He handed the bowl on, and watched in silence as each of his friends echoed the simple phrase. John drank last, and set the bowl gently down beside the fire. 

"And now..." Robin was comfortable - delightfully so - but he knew that that was not good enough. "There seems to be an awful lot of inactivity around here. Are we an army or a bunch of sick and weak convalescents?" 

"Can't we be both?" Managing to actually look sick and weak for the first time since he had regained consciousness, Will did his best to sound sick and weak as well. Robin smiled at him, and aimed a playful blow at his shoulder. 

"Well you're the only one who has a proper excuse. Tuck, fetch me a quarter-staff." He rose to his feet, and offered Huntingdon the wickedest smile that any of them had seen in some while. "Let's see what you're made of, brother." 

"Oh I can hold my own, believe me." Grinning broadly, Robert snatched up his own staff, lying unattended nearby. Marion shook her head. 

"Haven't you two had enough of fighting just lately?" 

"No." The pair were making for clearer ground nearby. Not to be outdone, John had snatched up his own staff, and was challenging Tuck. Marion sighed. If she knew this lot, the fight would end in the river. 

"You're mad." She turned her back on them, as though wanting nothing to do with their games; then snatched up another staff and joined in. It was a free for all before it had ever had a chance to be a proper contest, and laughing loudly Will watched it all descend into chaos. Much dodged around, trying to catch the unwary with a staff of his own, and Nasir stood watching, arms folded, smiling in his usual quiet way. There might be arguments yet, between the two sons of Herne, and there might yet be moments when both of them wished that they ruled this gang alone - but the troubles would be small, and the good days would far outweigh them. There was trouble in any family, after all. 

If any of the eight felt the presence that was watching them, none of them reacted to it. Herne stood at the edge of the clearing, his massive head-dress and flowing robes helping to hide him amongst the many trees and bushes. He had come here on a whim, to see how things were. He had his answer now, and he was content. 

"_One comes, one goes..._" They were words that had spelled the end for Loxley once, but now they heralded something new. "_One comes, one goes, and one returns again. But still there is much to do_." He smiled as the battle nearby reached its inevitable conclusion, and a loud splash rang out as somebody threw Much into the river. Seconds later another splash heralded somebody else's ducking. Will cheered. 

"Still much to do." Herne turned to leave them then, heading back into the forest before he was seen. He didn't want to interrupt their play, and distract them when they were having a good time. It was something that they had earned, and something that they well deserved. The Lord of the Forest disappeared as soundlessly as he had come, and headed back into his realm. He knew what was coming, just as he had known it for centuries. He knew of the battles still to come, and the hardships still to be faced. Many of them had been written of when even the oldest of the trees of Sherwood had still been acorns growing on the branches of their ancestors. 

"_One comes, turns the sky black. Another comes, turns the sky light_." It was a battle that had continued since the beginning of time, and it was no different here in Sherwood. On the surface the fight might be about liberating England, but there was more to it than that, and always had been. It was an ageless fight; a vital one. 

And in Sherwood it was only just getting started. 

THE END

* * *

In memory of Terry Walsh, damn fine stuntman and all round nice bloke. 


End file.
